4- 


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IN   THREE  BOOKS. 


Book  I.    In  England. 
Book  II.    In  Scotland.  Book  III.    In  France. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 
1S67. 


STEREOTYPED   AT  THE 
BOSTON    STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY, 
No.  4  Spring  Lane. 

Presswork  by  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


TO 

WILLIAM  WYLD, 

MEMBER   OF    THE    ROYAL    ACADEMY   OF   AMSTERDAM,  CHEVALIER 
OF   THE   LEGION   OF  HONOR,  ETC. 

THE  SEVEREST  OF  MY  CRITICS,  AND  ONE  OF 
MY  BEST  FRIENDS* 


PREFACE 


TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


IT  is  known  to  all  who  are  acquainted  with  the 
present  condition  of  the  fine  arts  in  England  that 
landscape-painters  rely  less  on  memory  and  invention 
than  formerly,  and  that  their  work  from  nature  is 
much  more  laborious  than  it  used  to  be. 

Having  studied  principally  in  the  northern  districts, 
I  had  to  contend  against  great  difficulties  of  climate. 
These  difficulties  I  have  entirely  overcome,  having 
painted  from  nature  on  the  most  exposed  moors  of 
Lancashire  and  the  Scottish  Highlands  in  the  worst 
possible  weather,  and  in  all  seasons  of  the  year. 

With  no  more  than  such  ordinary  powers  of  physi- 
cal strength  and  endurance  as  are  to  be  found  amongst 
average  English  gentlemen,  I  have  worked  from  na- 
ture on  the  spot  seven  or  eight  hours  a  day,  in  the 
wildest  situations,  and  in  the  most  merciless  storms 
of  winter.  I  have  carried  through  the  most  delicate 
processes  in  color,  hour  after  hour,  when  shepherds 
refused  to  wander  on  the  hills  and  sheep  were  lost  in 
the  drifted  snow. 

If  anybody  cares  to  know  how  this  was  accom- 


vi 


Preface, 


plished,  this  book  will  tell  him.  If  the  reader  hap- 
pens to  be  a  painter  by  profession,  he  will  appreciate 
the  utility  of  the  expedients  I  found  it  to  my  advantage 
to  adopt. 

The  expeditions  here  narrated  were  not  under- 
taken in  the  spirit  of  whim  or  freak,  or  from  a  love  of 
adventure,  as  persons  unacquainted  with  the  objects 
of  a  landscape-painter  will  in  all  probability  suppose. 
They  were  not  undertaken  in  any  way  for  pleasure, 
but  as  seriously  as  any  other  human  labor  ;  and  had 
no  other  motive  than  that  strong  desire  which  every 
real  artist  must  feel  —  to  get  the  utmost  amount  of 
attainable  truth  into  my  work. 

It  seems  necessary  to  say  this  at  the  outset,  be- 
cause, amongst  all  the  difficulties  I  have  ever  en- 
countered, the  most  insuperable  has  always  been  an 
ignorant  misunderstanding  of  motives ;  and  if  the 
reader  happened  to  share  this,  the  whole  scope  and 
purpose  of  the  book  would  be  utterly  unintelligible 
to  him. 

All  persons  are  not  artists,  and  cannot,  therefore,  be 
expected  to  understand,  without  a  little  explanation, 
that  artistic  labor  is  an  exceedingly  delicate  affair,  and 
requires  for  its  successful  performance  some  degree 
of  protection  from  rain,  hail,  snow,  and  wind. 

But  any  one,  especially  if  he  happens  to  be  a  man 
of  business,  may,  if  he  chooses,  ascertain  practically 
the  desirableness  of  shelter  when  one  has  careful  work 
to  do.  Let  him  take  his  papers  out  of  doors  some 
wild  winter's  day,  with  nothing  in  the  way  of  furni- 
ture but  a  portable  three-legged  stool  and  a  portfolio. 
Let  him  carry  this  apparatus  into  the  middle  of  some 
exposed  field,  and  then  apply  himself  as  he  best  may, 


Preface. 


vii 


without  shelter,  in  the  rain  and  wind,  to  the  prosecu- 
tion of  his  business.  There  is  not  a  clerk  nor  an 
attorney  in  England  who  would  work  under  such  con- 
ditions. Men  of  business  are  always  far  too  shrewd 
—  understand  the  laws  of  work  far  too  well  —  not  to 
perceive  the  immense  advantage  to  the  workman  of 
having  his  body  at  ease,  that  he  may  give  his  undi- 
vided attention  to  the  labor  in  hand.  So  their  offices 
and  counting-houses  are  comfortably  furnished,  and 
are  full  of  all  sorts  of  contrivances  for  the  orderly 
arrangement  of  their  materials.  And  does  the  reader 
suppose  that  delicate  drawing  does  not  require  at  least 
as  tranquil  a  nerve  as  the  addition  of  a  column  of 
figures,  or  the  composition  of  a  letter?  It  is  just  as 
rational  for  a  landscape-painter  to  take  a  tent  with 
him  to  shelter  him  whilst  he  works  from  nature,  as  it 
is  for  a  lawyer  to  rent  chambers,  or  a  cotton  manufac- 
turer to  build  himself  a  counting-house. 

Notwithstanding  these  very  obvious  considerations, 
the  author  has  usually  found  certain  invincible  mis- 
conceptions in  most  people  who  are  not  professed 
landscape-painters. 

Firstly,  everybody  fancied  that  I  took  to  tent  life 
because  I  preferred  a  tent  to  a  house.  This  idea  was 
constantly  expressed  in  some  such  observation  as  this : 
"  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  can't  see  what  you  like  so 
much  in  a  tent.  /  prefer  a  good  strong  stone  house 
with  a  well-slated  roof." 

Secondly,  a  few  thought  it  was  from  dislike  to  inns, 
and  argued  that  the  inns  were  very  comfortable,  &c. 

I  did  not  take  to  encamping  because  I  preferred  a 
tent  to  a  house  as  a  habitation,  but  simply  because  I 
found  it  considerably  more  portable.    My  largest  tent 


viii 


Preface. 


weighs  about  one  hundred  weight — a  comfortable 
house  weighs  above  a  thousand  tons.  It  takes  about 
twenty  minutes  to  pitch  the  most  elaborate  of  all  my 
tents  —  a  good  house  cannot  be  built  and  made  ready 
for  habitation  in  less  than  twenty  months.  My  best 
tent  cost  me  a  little  over  twenty  pounds  —  a  comforta- 
ble house  would  cost  at  least  a  thousand.  To  have  a 
house  of  this  kind  built  on  every  spot  where  I  have 
pitched  my  tent  would  have  cost  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  pounds. 

I  am  certainly  not  very  fond  of  inns  ;  but  that  is  not 
the  reason  why  I  prefer  my  tent  to  them.  The  real 
reason  is,  because  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  pitch  my 
tent  exactly  (that  is,  to  a  few  inches)  in  such  a  posi- 
tion that  I  may  see  a  good  natural  composition  through 
my  plate-glass  window  without  stirring  from  my  seat. 
Now,  after  considerable  experience  of  Highland  inns, 
I  may  be  permitted  to  state  that  as  a  rule  they  are  not 
provided  with  plate-glass  windows  —  that,  in  fact,  at 
this  moment  I  remember  no  instance  of  a  plate-glass 
window  in  any  inn  or  hotel  north  of  the  Clyde  —  and 
common  glass  distorts  objects;  and,  therefore,  it  is  of 
no  use  trying  to  see  through  it,  for  any  purpose  of  art. 

And  there  is  yet  another  objection.  So  far  as  my 
memory  serves  me,  Highland  inns  are  somewhat  heavy 
tabernacles,  weighing,  I  should  say,  a  good  many  tons 
each  ;  and,  being  usually  built  on  the  earth,  and  not 
erected  on  wheels,  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  stir  one 
of  them  without  pulling  it  down.  So  when  the  view 
visible  from  one's  bedroom  window  (in  the  height  of 
the  season,  usually  a  garret)  does  not  happen  to  be 
quite  suitable  as  a  composition,  what  is  to  be  done 
if  it  should  happen  to  rain?  —  and  rain  is  a  natural 


Preface. 


ix 


phenomenon  which  not  unfrequently  occurs  in  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland.  What  painters  residing  at 
inns  usually  do  in  wet  weather  is  no  great  mystery. 
They  read  the  newest  Glasgow  Herald  they  can  lay 
hold  of,  or  study  Black* s  Guide,  or  smoke  tobacco,  or 
drink  whiskey,  or  talk  to  the  landlady  —  all  very  praise- 
worthy and  profitable  occupations,  no  doubt,  only  they 
don't  paint  from  nature. 

The  light  sketching  tents  sold  by  the  colormen  are 
good  things  in  their  way  for  summer,  but  of  little  use 
in  winter.  It  is  impossible  to  work  long  in  the  snow 
without  a  fire  as  well  as  shelter.  In  my  tent  I  work 
just  as  well  in  winter  as  in  summer,  having  a  little 
stove  to  heat  it.  The  season  of  the  year  is,  in  fact, 
a  matter  of  absolute  indifference  to  me,  so  far  as  it 
concerns  my  work,  except  that  in  winter  the  days 
are  shorter. 


X 


HOW  THE  NOTION  OF  ENCAMPING 
DEVELOPED  ITSELF. 

First  form  of  the  idea.  Something  to  shelter  a 
painter  from  the  wind  and  rain,  and  yet  enable  him 
to  see.  This  led  to  the  devising  of  a  hut  for  shelter, 
with  plate-glass  windows  to  see  through. 

Second  form  of  the  idea.  Suppose  the  hut  erected  ; 
somebody  must  sleep  in  it  to  guard  it  at  night.  It  was 
a  long  way  from  home  ;  if  I  slept  in  it  myself,  I  should 
be  spared  a  long  walk  at  each  end  of  the  day.  This 
led  to  sleeping  in  the  hut. 

Third  form.  The  small  troubles  of  life  reminded 
me  that  servants  are  useful  people.  Accommodation 
for  a  servant  was  wanted.  I  devised  a  combination 
of  tent  and  hut  for  him.  This  led  to  a  transition  from 
huts  to  tents ;  and  now,  1866,  my  camp  is  all  of  can- 
vas —  two  ordinary  tents  and  a  studio  tent. 

Lastly,  I  may  as  well  confess  that,  having  tried 
camp  life,  I  took  a  great  liking  for  it,  and  to  this 
day  enjoy  nothing  so  much,  unless  it  be  sailing. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I.  — IN  ENGLAND. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.    A  Walk  on  the  Lancashire  Moors   i 

II.    The  Author  invents  a  New  Hut   6 

III.  Under  Canvas. — The  Weather  unpropitious.  9 

IV.  The  Author  his  own  Housekeeper  and  Cook.  15 
V.    Advantages  of  the  Hut   20 

VI.    What  the  People  think   24 

VII.   Troublesome  Visitors   32 

BOOK  II.  —  IN  SCOTLAND. 

I.    Tents  and  Boats  for  the  Highlands.  ...  43 

II.    The  Author  arrives  at  Loch  Awe   57 

III.  The  Author  encamps   on   an  Uninhabited 

Island   62 

IV.  Educational   65 

V.    The  Isle  of  Indolence   70 

VI.    The  Three  Mad  Men  of  the  Island,  and  the 

Mad  Man  of  the  Mountain   78 

VII.  A  Lake  Voyage.  Log  of  the  "  Britannia."  .  88 
VIII.    Further  Extracts  from  the  Log  of  the 

"  Britannia."   101 

IX.    A  Friend  in  the  Desert   111 

X.    A  Letter  from  the  Author  in  Paris  to  a 

Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire   119 

XI.    The  Island  Farm   134 

XII.    A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe   141 

XIII.    Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles.    .  160 

(xi) 


xii  Contents. 

XIV.    1859  r72 

The  Pool  of  Death  173 

The  Coming  of  the  Clouds  175 

XV.   Ben  Cruachan  on  a  December  Evening.    .  .178 

Loch  Awe  on  a  Misty  Morning  179 

Loch  Awe  after  Sunset,  October  10,  1859, 
looking  to  where  the  sun  had  gone 

DOWN  l8o 

Loch  Awe  after  Sunset,  September  23,  i860, 

looking  to  where  the  sun  had  set.  .    .  1 83 
Craiganunie  after  Sunset,  July  15,  1858.  .    .  184 

A  Fine  Day  in  June,  i860  186 

After  Rain,  July  i,  1861  —  9.30  P.  M.  ...  188 
Calm  after  Rain,  May  21,  1861 — 8  P.  M.  .    .  188 

October  10,  1859  —  9      M  189 

October  10,  1859  —  4-3°  P*  M  190 

The  Blue  Haze  191 

A  Bit  of  Lake  Shore  192 

Sunrise  in  Autumn.    Mist  rising  193 

A  Morning  in  March  194 

Loch  Awe  on  an  Evening  in  March.     .    .  .195 

A  Clachan  196 

A  Lake  Storm,  October,  i860  198 

A  Calm  Day,  March  29,  1859  *99 

A  Stream  in  Action  200 

A  Stream  at  Rest  202 

XVI.   A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens  207 

BOOK  III.  — IN  FRANCE. 

I.    First  Head  Quarters.  —  A  Little  French 

City  247 

II.    The  Slopes  of  Gold  296 

III.  Second  Head  Quarters.  —  A  Farm  in  the 

Autunois  313 

IV.  A  River  Voyage  in  a  Basket  337 


Epilogue, 


342 


A  PAINTER'S  CAMP. 


BOOK  L  — IN  ENGLAND. 
LANCASHIRE  AND  YORKSHIRE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  WALK  ON  THE  LANCASHIRE  MOORS. 

I HAD  a  wild  walk  yesterday.  I  have  a  notion 
of  encamping  on  the  Boulsworth  moors  to  study 
heather  ;  and  heartily  tired  of  being  caged  up  here 
in  my  library,  with  nothing  to  see  but  wet  garden- 
walks  and  dripping  yew  trees,  and  a  sun-dial  where- 
on no  shadow  had  fallen  the  livelong  day,  I  deter- 
mined, in  spite  of  the  rain,  to  be  off  to  the  moors  to 
choose  a  site  for  my  encampment.  Not  very  far 
from  this  house  still  dwells  an  old  servant  of  my 
uncle's,  with  whom  I  am  on  the  friendliest  terms. 
So  I  called  upon  this  neighbor  on  my  way,  and  asked 
him  if  he  would  take  a  walk  with  me  to  the  hills. 
Jamie  stared  a  little,  and  remarked  that  "  it  ur  feefil 
weet,"  but  accompanied  me  nevertheless,  and  a  very 
pleasant  walk  we  had  of  it. 

i  C1) 


2 


A  Walk  on  the 


By  climbing  over  innumerable  stone-walls,  and  fol- 
lowing here  and  there  the  course  of  a  narrow,  sloppy 
lane  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  we  got  at  last  on  the 
wild  heath.  I  think  no  scenery  in  England  could  be 
sadder  or  wilder  than  such  scenery  as  that  in  such 
weather.  Fancy  a  vast  bleak  range  of  hills  parti- 
tioned into  fields  by  leagues  upon  leagues  of  stone- 
walls, with  here  and  there  a  dreary  village  wThere 
the  quarrymen  live  who  work  in  the  stone-quarries 
on  the  hills,  and  one  or  two  desolate  mansions  of  the 
Elizabethan  age  standing  forlorn  on  the  bare  hills, 
their  fair  parks  cut  up  into  pastures,  their  oak-woods 
felled  long  ago,  their  wainscoted  chambers  empty 
and  cold,  and  their  lofty  gables  rent  and  tottering. 
These,  with  the  uncouth  manners  of  the  peasantry, 
and  the  harshness  of  their  northern  dialect,  recall 
vividly  that  wonderful  flight  of  Jane  Eyre  from  the 
house  of  Mr.  Rochester.  Those  passages  of  land- 
scape-description which  every  one  has  admired  in 
that  marvellous  novel  were  studied  by  the  young 
woman  who  wrote  it  from  this  very  country  I  am 
trying  to  describe  now.  We  passed  one  or  two  little 
out-of-the-wray  houses  that  answered  exactly  to  the 
description  of  that  where  Jane  Eyre  found  shelter 
and  friends,  and  any  painter  who  would  illustrate 
that  part  of  the  novel  should  come  here  for  his  back- 
grounds. 

Having  found  a  wild  mountain-road,  we  followed 
it  till  we  came  to  the  real  heather  region.  I  ex- 
amined very  carefully  every  spot  which  appeared 
favorable  for  camp-work,  but  have  not  yet  decided 
which  to  choose  finally.  We  had  crossed  the  border 
of  Yorkshire  before  we  turned  to  come  home,  and  I 


Lancashire  Moors, 


3 


found  a  very  fine  wild  valley,  with  one  side  of  it 
covered  with  magnificent  stones,  as  big  as  Highland 
cottages,  scattered  about  like  pebbles  on  the  sea-shore. 
After  spending  some  time  amongst  these  stones  seek- 
ing for  natural  compositions,  I  was  forced  to  return 
homewards  by  another  route,  as  night  was  coming 
on,  and  the  moors  were  misty,  and  we  were  very 
likely  to  be  lost. 

And  lost  we  were,  and  that  utterly  ;  for  when  we  got 
out  upon  the  great  broad  summit  of  the  moor,  night 
had  come  on,  and  I  could  not  see  my  hand.  Jamie 
was  about  a  hundred  yards  from  me,  when  he  began 
to  get  confused,  and  cried  out,  — 

"  Mestur  Gilburd,  Mestur  Gilburd,  con  yau  tell  me 
where  Worsthorn  lies?" 

64  Yes,  certainly,"  I  answered  in  the  most  perfect 
confidence  ;  "  it  lies  down  there  in  the  west,  where 
the  wind  comes  from." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Jamie ;  "  I  know  naut  abaat  it 
mysen,  but  I  dunnot  think  yau'll  find  it,  sur,  if  yau  go 
thither." 

"Well,  which  way  must  we  go,  then?" 
"  I  connot  tell." 

So  I  told  Jamie  to  wait  till  we  got  together,  and 
then  I  said  we  had  better  walk  on  till  we  came  to  a 
wall  which  I  knew  crossed  the  moor  near  some  recent 
enclosures.  And  we  kept  together  in  the  darkness, 
stumbling  and  falling  over  the  boggy  ground,  through 
the  pelting  rain,  as  we  best  could,  till  I  fell  into  a 
ditch,  and  in  stretching  forth  my  hands  felt  what 
seemed  to  be  a  rock  immediately  in  front  of  me,  and 
then  by  touching  its  surface,  as  a  blind  man  reads  an 
embossed  book,  discovered  that  it  was  of  rude  masonry, 


4 


A  Walk  on  the 


and  not  rock,  and  then  called  out  in  triumph  that 
I  had  found  the  wall.  On  this  rose  a  difference 
between  us  as  to  the  direction  in  which  we  ought 
to  follow  our  newly-found  guide ;  but,  happily  for 
both  of  us,  I  yielded  the  point,  and  followed  Jamie 
along  the  wall-side  for  what  seemed  an  intermi- 
nable distance,  till  we  came  suddenly  against  an- 
other wall,  that  ran  at  right  angles  to  the  first,  and 
then  we  knew  that  the  road  lay  there  on  the  other 
side. 

Our  anxieties  over,  I  wanted  to  have  a  cigar,  but 
my  pockets  were  wet  and  matches  spoiled.  So  we 
marched  quickly  along  the  road,  which  was  just 
visible,  and  mile  after  mile  of  the  black  moorland 
passed  away  to  the  rear  unperceived. 

At  last  we  came  to  a-  village,  and  seeing,  by  the 
glimmering  light  from  a  window,  a  crooked  branch 
of  oak,  without  bark  or  leaf,  suspended  over  an  open 
door,  I  knew  that  we  were  at  the  sign  of  the  Crooked 
Billet  in  Worsthorn,  and  entered  therein  and  lighted 
my  long-deferred  cigar,  and  refreshed  myself  and 
Jamie  with  hot  ale  and  the  contemplation  of  a  bright- 
ly-blazing fire,  and  then  we  came  home. 

Barbarous  is  the  artistic  design  of  the  old  carved 
bed  I  slept  in  here  last  night,  and  slender  are  its 
claims  to  a  sculptor's  admiration  ;  but  as  I  lay  med- 
itating in  it  after  a  luxurious  bath,  and  watched  the 
firelight  glance  unsteadily  on  grim  visages  carved 
deep  in  the  dark  panels,  and  on  the  absurd  old  pil- 
lars rashly  built  to  outrage  all  the  laws  of  con- 
struction and  common  sense,  with  their  huge  carved 
blocks  of  timber,  held  together  by  weak  and  slender 
shafts  —  and  on  the  great  oak  tester  these  pillars 


Lancashire  Moors. 


5 


painfully  carried  century  after  century,  they  them- 
selves trembling  at  every  sound  under  their  ponder- 
ous burden  —  I  forgave  for ,  once  all  these  pictur- 
esque barbarisms,  and  thought  myself  happy  to  lie 
once  more  under  that  threatening  old  tester,  rather 
than  out  on  the  wet  moor,  with  the  cold  low  rain- 
cloud  for  a  canopy. 


6 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  AUTHOR  INVENTS  A  NEW  HUT. 

I AM  quite  determined  to  encamp  to  study  heather ; 
there  is  none  of  it  near  enough  to  go  to  every  day, 
and  I  must  have  a  few  careful  studies  of  it,  no  matter 
what  trouble  and  inconvenience  they  cost  me.  These 
green  fields  and  pleasant  pastures  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way,  but  no  preparation  for  the  Highland  fore- 
grounds :  I  hate  prim  hedges  and  smooth  meadows, 
belted  with  plantations.  The  only  valuable  bit  of 
study  near  at  hand  is  a  little  sandstone  stream  ;  but 
one  cannot  long  work  at  the  same  kind  of  subject 
without  getting  contracted  ideas. 

If  I  go  and  live  a  month  on  the  moor,  I  think  it  will 
be  long  enough  to  produce  a  satisfactory  oil  study  of 
foreground  detail.  Then,  if  I  find  that  camp  life  suits 
me,  I  intend  to  follow  out  the  plan  in  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland  for  some  months  every  year. 

I  have  been  very  busily  occupied  with  the  invention 
of  a  new  hut,  which  is  at  last  finished,  and  which 
appears  to  promise  every  accommodation  I  require  in 
a  wonderfully  small  space.  The  hut  is  erected  in  the 
garden  here,  where  it  excites  a  good  deal  of  curiosity. 
It  consists  entirely  of  panels,  of  which  the  largest  are 
two  feet  six  inches  square  :  these  panels  can  be  carried 
separately  on  pack-horses,  or  even  on  men's  backs,  and 
then  united  together  by  iron  bolts  into  a  strong  little 


The  Author  invents  a  new  Hut. 


7 


building.  Four  of  the  largest  panels  serve  as  windows, 
being  each  of  them  filled  with  a  large  pane  of  excellent 
plate-glass.  When  erected,  the  walls  present  a  per- 
fectly smooth  surface  outside,  and  a  panelled  interior ; 
the  floor  being  formed  in  exactly  the  same  manner, 
with  the  panelled  or  coffered  side  turned  towards  the 
earth,  and  the  smooth  surface  uppermost.  By  this 
arrangement,  all  the  wall-bolts  are  inside,  and  those 
of  the  floor  underneath  it,  which  protects  them  not 
only  from  the  weather,  but  from  theft,  an  iron  bolt 
being  a  great  temptation  to  country  people  on  account 
of  its  convenience  and  utility.  The  walls  are  bolted 
to  the  floor,  which  gives  great  strength  to  the  whole 
structure,  and  the  panels  are  carefully  ordered,  like 
the  stones  in  a  well-built  wall,  so  that  the  joints  of  the 
lower  course  of  panels  do  not  fall  below  those  of  the 
upper.  The  roof  is  arched,  and  covered  with  water- 
proof canvas.  I  have  been  careful  to  provide  a  current 
of  fresh  air,  by  placing  ventilators  at  each  end  of  the 
arch,  which  insures  a  current  without  inconvenience 
to  the  occupant. 

This  hut  is  a  perfect  masterpiece  of  joiner's  work, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  will  completely  answer  my  pur- 
pose. It  would  have  been  a  great  treasure  in  the 
Crimea,  but  the  design  is  too  expensive  and  too  elabo- 
rate for  military  purposes.  For  the  study  of  snow  in 
windy  weather,  when  the  drifts  are  most  beautiful,  it 
will  be  a  most  precious  addition  to  my  artistic  appa- 
ratus, for  I  shall  be  able  to  sit  comfortably  inside,  and 
still  see  my  subject  through  the  plate-glass  just  as  well 
as  without  it,  and  yet  be  perfectly  protected  from  the 
wind.  I  have  described  this  little  hut  in  detail,  be- 
cause I  think  some  such  invention  might  be  of  real 


8 


The  Author  mve?zts  a  new  Hut. 


service  to  our  modern  school  of  naturalistic  landscape- 
painters,  whose  work  from  nature  is  of  so  exceedingly 
arduous  a  character  that  it  ought  to  have  every  facility 
that  human  ingenuity  can  contrive  for  it.  I  hope, 
ultimately,  to  ascertain  experimentally  how  far  inven- 
tions of  this  kind  may  assist  artists  in  their  endeavors 
after  truth,  and  to  publish  for  their  benefit  any  results 
I  may  arrive  at. 

Since  the  hut  was  set  up  in  the  garden,  many  of  our 
friends  have  seen  it.  One  young  lady  thought  it  would 
make  a  good  kennel  for  my  big  Newfoundland  dog ; 
but  an  old  lady  of  rank  would  not  hear  of  any  such 
disparaging  comments  upon  it,  and  declared  very  posi- 
tively that  she  considered  the  hut  a  bit  of  most  refined 
luxury,  adding  that  she  could  live  in  it  herself  very 
happily  indeed,  if  necessary. 

I  have  invited  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends,  and 
we  have  inaugurated  the  hut  wTith  a  small  banquet,  at 
which  we  two  only  were  present.  The  house  being 
at  no  great  distance,  everything  passed  off  satisfactorily 
enough,  but  I  look  forward  with  some  anxiety  to  the 
difficulties  of  the  culinary  department  when  I  am  alone 
on  the  hill,  with  no  friendly  kitchen  within  call. 


9 


CHAPTER  III. 

UNDER  CANVAS.  —  THE  WEATHER  UNPROPITIOUS. 

I AM  in  camp  at  last,  on  the  frontier  line  between 
Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  on  a  vast  moor  which 
extends  far  in  every  direction.  We  carted  the  hut 
over  the  hills,  and  have  erected  it  in  a  very  convenient 
position.  The  road  led  us  over  ground  so  treacherous 
that  we  were  often  axle-deep  in  the  morass ;  but  we 
arrived  here  safely  after  all,  and  built  the  hut  in  its 
place  before  nightfall,  when  the  men  left  me. 

The  rain  pelted  furiously  in  the  evening,  and  I  was 
fortunate  in  getting  my  house  built  during  the  fine 
hours  of  the  afternoon.  The  wind,  too,  rose  at  night, 
and  howled  wofully  enough  over  the  moor ;  but  the 
hut  seemed  wonderfully  snug  and  cosy  when  I  lighted 
my  pipe,  and  made  myself  a  cup  of  tea. 

When  the  pipe  was  finished,  I  slung  my  hammock 
and  fell  asleep  ;  but  during  the  night  there  came  a 
Storm  of  wind  and  rain  that  made  the  hut  tremble  and 
quake  before  it.  I  awoke  suddenly,  and  when  restored 
to  a  full  consciousness  of  my  position,  found  myself 
alone,  in  a  sailor's  hammock,  in  a  slight  little  wooden 
cabin,  on  the  stormy  heights  of  a  northern  moor. 

My  first  sensation  was  that  of  imminent  danger  at 
sea.  I  thought  the  spray  beat  against  the  window  of 
my  cabin,  but  it  was  only  the  furious  rain  ;  I  thought 
the  sails  flapped  above  me  in  the  storm,  but  it  was 


IO 


Under  Canvas. 


only  the  canvas  roof ;  I  expected  the  cabin  to  pitch 
and  roll,  but  it  remained  steadfast,  though  trembling 
in  every  fibre. 

Then,  at  last,  I  became  aware  that  I  was  not  at  sea, 
but  only  alone  on  the  hills,  a  thousand  feet. above  it; 
and  I  turned  in  my  hammock  with  an  ineffable  sensa- 
tion of  profound  comfort  and  satisfaction. 

On  awaking  the  next  morning,  I  felt  so  warm 
and  comfortable  that  the  idea  of  getting  up  was  ex- 
ceedingly repugnant  to  me  ;  but  having  reflected  that 
I  had  no  servants  to  prepare  my  breakfast,  I  came  to 
the  wise  conclusion  that  I  had  better  bestir  myself, 
and  get  forward  with  my  work.  I  had  done  very  lit- 
tle towards  effecting  a  convenient  arrangement  of  all 
my  things  when  a  boy  arrived  with  milk,  and  offered 
to  fetch  me  water,  and  show  me  the  nearest  spring. 

Whoever  would  realize  my  position  here  should 
read  Jane  Eyre  over  again,  and  pay  particular  atten- 
tion to  her  description  of  the  moor  country.  I  am  at 
the  highest  point  of  the  mountain  road  from  Burnley 
to  Heptonstall,  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
border  line  of  Lancashire,  I  enjoy  my  rambles  on 
the  moor  exceedingly.  I  like  the  long  lines  of  these 
hills,  with  their  endless  variety  and  sweet  subtlety  of 
curve.  They  are  not  mountains,  nor  have  they  any 
pretension  to  the  energetic  character  of  the  true  moun- 
tain form  ;  but  they  have  a  certain  calm  beauty,  and  a 
sublime  expression  of  gigantic  power  in  repose,  that 
we  do  not  find  in  the  loftier  ranges.  If  I  were  not 
determined  to  study  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  I 
could  find  work  enough  in  these  Lancashire  and 
Yorkshire  highlands  to  last  my  life.  They  are  defi- 
cient, however,  in  the  grand  element  of  water ;  and 


The  Weather  unpropttlous. 


ii 


that  is  a  sufficient  reason  why  I  have  no  business  to 
remain  here  very  long,  when  thousands  of  noble  effects 
are  passing  every  day  from  the  great  northern  lakes 
unobserved  and  unrecorded. 

I  am  down  in  a  little  dell  for  shelter,  and  because 
the  foreground  here  suits  me ;  but  I  have  only  to  walk 
a  few  yards  to  see  Pendle  and  all  the  blue  Craven 
hills,  which,  from  this  elevation,  look  exceedingly 
grand  ;  a  few  hundred  feet  lower,  the  base  of  Pendle 
shuts  out  all  the  others.  There  is  a  perfectly  delight- 
ful little  dell  close  at  hand,  that  is  completely  hidden 
from  the  road,  and  I  half  repent  I  did  not  establish 
myself  there  instead  of  here,  where  my  hut  is  visible 
to  the  passers-by,  which  will  probably  cause  me  some 
annoyance.  As  to  the  other  hollow,  I  found  it  out  by 
accident,  and  too  late.  It  is  a  sweet  natural  lawn  of 
short,  soft  grass,  surrounded  by  a  gigantic  wall  of 
ponderous  rocks,  all  crowned  and  tufted  with  purple- 
flowering  heather.  A  tiny  stream  of  crystalline  purity 
winds  through  this  exquisite  hollow  ;  and  one  cannot 
help  imagining  that  the  fairies  dance  by  moonlight  on 
its  delicate  grass,  and  revel  by  its  little  stream. 

I  mentioned  in  the  first  chapter  what  a  noble  valley 
there  is  near  here,  and  what  magnificent  stones.  For 
studies  of  massive  individual  stones,  the  Flask  Moor  is 
as  good  as  a  Highland  glen.  Blocks,  equal  in  size  to 
a  good  dining-room,  are  strewn  about  writh  such 
colossal  energy  as  almost  to  revive  in  one  the  infantine 
conception  of  divine  operation,  and  to  lead  one  to 
imagine  that  a  giant-god  of  mighty  muscle  and  sinew 
had  hurled  them  about  in  the  sportiveness  of  super- 
natural strength. 

There  are  a  few  farm-houses  in  these  wilds,  some 


12 


Under  Canvas. 


of  them  old,  but  for  the  most  part  not  picturesque, 
and  especially  deficient  in  color.  The  stone-walls 
that  cut  up  the  country  into  thousands  of  parallelo- 
grams and  trapeziums  do  not  carry  their  geometry 
over  the  great  heights  of  Boulsworth  ;  but  wherever 
land  is  enclosed  in  this  region,  it  is  always  by  these 
dull,  brownish-gray  stone  lines,  hateful  alike  to  the 
hunter  and  the  artist. 

The  weather  has  been  exceedingly  rough  since  I 
took  up  my  residence  here.  The  first  night  was  wet, 
as  I  said  above,  but  the  second  a  storm  came  on  at 
dusk,  and  during  the  whole  night  a  hurricane  blew 
from  the  east,  catching  one  end  of  my  hut,  and  making 
it  tremble  and  vibrate  all  night  long.  I  had  some 
fears  for  the  gables,  which  are  not  so  well  supported 
as  the  other  panels.  However,  they  stood  perfectly 
stanch  ;  but  often,  during  the  night,  violent  squalls 
shook  my  frail  habitation,  and  rattled  its  contents 
loudly.  My  tin  salt-box  rattled  the  whole  night,  or  at 
least  wras  busy  rattling  every  time  I  awoke.  A  gust 
of  extraordinary  violence  would  come  at  intervals, 
flapping  the  canvas  so  that  it  gave  loud  reports,  as  a 
ship's  sails  do  in  a  tempest.  The  driven  rain  whipped 
the  window,  pans  danced  and  jingled  on  their  shelves, 
the  boards  of  the  hut  shrieked  in  the  storm's  path, 
and  the  canvas  flapped  with  sharp  reports  like  pistol- 
shots.  I  determined  quietly  what  I  would  do  if  the 
wind  tore  the  roof  off;  and  having  arranged  all  the 
details  to  my  satisfaction  in  a  sort  of  programme, 
turned  over,  and  fell  asleep  ;  and  though  sometimes 
awaking  afterwards  to  find  myself  in  the  dark,  with 
such  a  confusion  of  noises  about  me  as  might  almost 
have  frightened  me,  I  always  immediately  recollected 


The  Weather  unfirof  itious. 


13 


where  I  was,  turned  over  quietly,  and  fell  asleep 
again.  Sometimes  the  flapping  of  the  canvas  sounded 
unpleasantly  like  the  efforts  of  some  robber  to  break 
into  the  hut ;  but  I  did  not  think  a  thief  would  have 
the  sense  to  choose  a  confusing  night.  My  dog  was 
well  off  the  wind,  as  his  kennel  is  to  the  west.  In  the 
morning  I  made  an  unpleasant  discovery.  Before  the 
hut  was  bolted  together,  I  wished  to  grease  the  joints 
with  tallow  ;  but  the  joiner  who  made  it,  being  very 
proud  of  his  workmanship,  had  persuaded  me  that  the 
joints  were  so  exquisitely  fitted  that  there  was  no  oc- 
casion for  tallow  at  all ;  so  I  omitted  that  precaution, 
and  the  water  gets  in.  I  tried  to  tallow  the  joints  in- 
side, but  could  not  keep  the  wet  out. 

The  morning  was  terrific,  and  it  rained  incessantly 
all  day ;  still  I  worked  very  steadily  at  my  foreground. 
I  drew  the  ground  with  perfect  ease  in  all  its  detail, 
as  deliberately  as  if  I  had  been  copying  a  picture  in 
the  Louvre.  The  subject  I  intend  to  paint  here  is  an 
admirable  study  of  foreground,  rich  in  every  variety 
of  moorland  vegetation,  and  I  shall  stay  here  until  I 
have  every  leaf  and  blade  of  it  on  canvas.  The  season 
is  already  too  far  advanced  for  the  finest  purple  of  the 
heather  bloom  ;  but  what  remains  of  it  is  still  precious, 
and  an  infinite  variety  of  color  lies  half  hidden  under 
the  blasted  stems  of  the  burnt  heath.  Delicate  little 
ferns  of  the  purest  green  lie  close  to  spots  of  scarlet  as 
bright  as  the  plumage  of  tropical  birds.  Then  there 
are  those  exquisite  oases,  where  the  grass  is  shorter, 
and  softer,  and  greener  than  palace  lawns,  and  where, 
when  you  go  near  enough,  you  may  see  that  a  spring, 
pure  and  abundant,  washes  continually  every  blade 
with  its  sweet  waters. 


14    Under  Canvas,  —  The  Weather  unfirofiitious. 

The  evening  did  not  promise  much  comfort :  it  was 
excessively  stormy,  and  I  did  not  lay  my  carpet  down, 
on  account  of  the  wet.  I  did  contrive,  however,  to 
give  some  appearance  of  comfort  to  matters,  and 
drank  my  cup  of  tea  in  peace  ;  after  which  I  got  a 
pipe  and  a  book.  I  set  pans  to  catch  the  water,  which 
now  dropped  at  many  places,  and  having  hung  my 
hammock  in  the  middle,  instead  of  at  one  side  of  the 
hut,  as  usual,  and  unscrewed  the  legs  from  my  table 
to  get  it  out  of  the  way,  got  into  bed,  and  fell  asleep 
directly,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  noises. 

The  storm  went  on,  I  suppose,  during  the  night 
with  its  old  fury,  for  this  morning  it  seems  not  at  all 
abated.  The  wind,  however,  has  veered  to  the  north- 
east, and  so  I  am  better  sheltered  than  yesterday.  I 
am  getting  a  little  tired  of  hearing  the  water  drop  into 
my  pans,  and  beat  against  my  house,  but  so  accus- 
tomed to  it  that  it  is  beginning  to  seem  quite  the  nor- 
mal state  of  things,  and  an  odd  sort  of  feeling  begins 
to  gain  upon  me  that  I  am  alone  in  a  dreary  land, 
where  it  raineth  forever  and  forever. 


l5 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  AUTHOR  HIS  OWN  HOUSEKEEPER  AND  COOK. 

WHILST  writing  a  letter  this  evening  to  a  friend 
at  a  distance,  it  occurred  to  me  to  give  him  a 
detailed  history  of  one  day,  as  the  most  likely  way  to 
make  him  understand  the  sort  of  life  I  am  leading  here. 
Before  sealing  the  letter,  I  will  copy  out  that  passage 
for  my  portfolio. 

A.  M. 

6.0.  —  Awake,  and  feel  far  too  comfortable  to  get  up,  espe- 
cially on  wet  mornings,  so  turn  over  on  the  other 
side  and  go  to  sleep  again. 
6.45.  —  Begin  to  think  seriously  of  getting  up. 

7.0. — The  absolute  necessity  of  getting  up  presents  itself  to 
my  mind  with  terrible  distinctness.  Begin  to  feel 
hungry,  and  remember  that  there  is  nobody  here  to 
care  whether  I  am  hungry  or  not,  and  that  if  I  don't 
want  to  perish  of  sheer  famine,  I  had  better  get  up 
without  further  hesitation  and  make  myself  some 
breakfast. 

7.10.  —  Rise  vigorously  and  make  my  bed.  This  operation 
is  performed  as  follows :  I  fold  the  blankets  and 
sheets  together  till  they  assume  the  dimensions  of 
a  cushion,  about  three  feet  six  by  one  foot  three 
inches.  This  cushion,  decently  enclosed  in  a  rail- 
way rug,  forms  a  truly  decorous  and  even  luxurious 
protection  from  the  hard  oak  military  chest  I  sit 
upon  during  the  day.  The  hammock  being  rolled 
up  into  the  compass  of  a  cylinder  two  feet  six  inches 
long,  by  four  inches  in  diameter,  is  strapped  well 
out  of  the  way  against  one  wall  of  the  hut. 


i6 


The  Author  his  own 


7.15.  —  Make  my  toilet  out  of  doors  in  all  weathers,  often  in 
a  neighboring  stream.  Brush  my  clothes,  oil  my 
boots,  and  dress.  Having  trimmed  and  lighted  my 
spirit-lamp,  and  set  the  pan  on  with  water  in  it  for 
porridge,  rewash  my  hands  and  make  a  large  mess 
of  porridge,  one  half  of  which  I  commonly  consume 
myself,  whilst  the  other  is  destined  for  the  dog,  who 
is  the  gentleman  of  the  establishment  in  the  vulgar 
sense  of  the  title,  as  he  does  nothing  whatever  for 
his  living. 

8.0.  — Milk-boy  arrives  punctually.  I  eat  my  porridge  with 
new  milk.  After  this  the  inevitable  toils  of  wash- 
ing-up. 

8.30.  —  Go  out  for  half  an  hour,  and  walk  a  mile  on  the  moor 
with  my  dog. 

9.0.  —  Set  to  work  at  my  painting.    Paint  four  hours, 
p.  M. 

1.0.  — Lunch,  and  take  another  ramble  with  the  dog. 
2.0.  —  Resume  painting. 

5.0.  —  Cease  painting  for  the  day.  Clean  brushes,  then  set 
about  cooking,  and  generally  produce  dishes  of 
great  novelty,  entirely  different  from  anything  I 
intend.  The  totally  unexpected  character  of  these 
results  lends  great  zest  to  my  experiments  in  culi- 
nary science.  Dine.  After  dinner  the  woful  drudg- 
ery of  washing-up  !  At  this  period  of  the  day,  am 
seized  with  a  vague  desire  to  espouse  a  scullery- 
maid,  it  being  impossible  to  accommodate  one  in  the 
hut  without  scandal,  unless  in  the  holy  state  of 
matrimony :  hope  no  scullery-maid  will  pass  the 
hut  when  I  am  engaged  in  washing-up,  as  I  should 
be  sure  to  make  her  an  offer. 
7.30.  —  On  fine  moonlight  evenings  take  a  walk  on  the 
moors,  on  wet  ones  stay  in-doors.  The  hut  is  de- 
lightful at  nigh{,  when  my  curtains  are  drawn  and 
candles  lighted.  The  wilder  the  night  the  better. 
When  the  storm-wind  sweeps  the  desolate  moors,  I 
only  feel  that  extreme  sensation  of  comfort  that  one 
experiences  in  the  snug  cabin  of  a  nobleman's  yacht 


Housekeeper  and  Cook. 


17 


far  away  on  the  dark  seas.  Fancy  a  miniature 
interior,  wainscoted  with  white  panels  like  those  in 
old  country  houses  that  some  Vandal  has  whitened 
in  Queen  Anne's  classic  time ;  fancy  this  interior 
arched  over  with  a  roof  of  emerald  green,  with  little 
curtains  of  the  same  color  before  its  windows,  and  a 
dark  red  carpet  on  its  tight  wooden  floor;  the  walls 
hung  with  choice  little  engravings,  a  book  or  two  on 
the  table,  a  cup  of  tea,  and  the  kettle  singing  over  a 
spirit-lamp.  Then,  with  a  cigar,  or  perhaps  a  long, 
grave-looking  meerschaum,  and  a  favorite  author,  I 
recline  luxuriously  in  this  miniature  palace,  and 
chuckle  inwardly  as  I  think  of  certain  friends  who 
fancy  me  shivering  with  cold  and  half  frozen  in  the 
long  dark  nights.  My  great  dog,  too,  lies  stretched 
on  the  warm  carpet  till  the  time  comes  to  break  up 
this  pretty  picture  of  repose,  and  then  he  goes  to  his 
canvas  kennel,  where  he  has  plenty  of  clean  straw 
to  lie  in  and  a  big  bone  to  play  with. 
11.0.  —  Sling  my  hammock.  Put  a  loaded  revolver  on  the 
table,  then  spread  on  the  stretched  hammock  a  sack 
of  white  counterpane  containing  two  inner  sacks, 
one  of  blanketing  and  the  other  of  sheets,  cunningly 
sewn  together  according  to  a  plan  of  my  own,  where- 
by the  chief  inconvenience  of  a  narrow  bed  —  name- 
ly, the  certainty  that  the  clothes  will  be  all  on  the 
ground  before  morning  —  is  happily  overcome.  So 
I  enter  with  much  circumspection  the  narrow  neck 
of  this  treble  sack,  and,  having  fairly  bagged  myself, 
extinguish  the  candles  and  thus  conclude  the  day. 

If  ever  again  I  spend  a  few  months  in  France,  I 
shall  certainly  apprentice  myself  to  a  cook.  Every- 
one who  has  the  most  remote  chance  of  being  thrown 
on  his  own  resources,  should  study  cookery  as  a 
science.  Here  am  I  in  the  wilderness,  incapable  of 
preparing  the  plainest  English  dinner  without  some 
.  2 


iS 


The  Author  his  own 


inevitable  catastrophe  !  Any  handy  little  French  sol- 
dier would  live  here  like  a  prince. 

There  is  but  one  thing  I  can  cook  tolerably,  and 
that  is  porridge.  I  always  make  porridge  for  break- 
fast, and  eat  it  with  new  milk.  The  advantages  of  hot 
porridge  over  coffee  and  eggs  are  numerous,  chiefly 
on  account  of  economy  of  time.  Porridge,  however, 
requires  salt,  which,  of  course,  I  continually  forget  to 
put  in,  as,  if  there  is  any  possibility  of  making  a  mis- 
take, I  am  sure  to  make  it.  One  does  not  recognize 
any  saline  taste  in  good  cookery,  but  when  the  salt  is 
omitted,  there  is  an  unpleasant  insipidity. 

My  dinner  to-day  was  rather  ambitious,  being  an 
attempt  to  imitate  the  Parisian  cotelette  de  mouton 
aux  fiommes  de  terre.  The  potatoes  are  cut  into  thin 
slips,  and  the  cutlets  fried ;  but  I  entirely  failed  to 
obtain  that  dry,  yellow  crispness  that  the  French 
cooks  give  to  their  potatoes,  and  I  cannot  conceive 
how  they  manage  it.*  I  cannot  say  much  for  my 
cooking  apparatus.  It  consists  of  two  spirit-lamps, 
one  under  the  other.  With  one  alone  the  heat  is 
sufficient.  With  both  it  is  so  excessive  as  to  spoil 
not  only  the  viands,  but  the  apparatus  itself,  which  is 
only  soldered,  and  solder  is  easily  fusible.  My  stove 
is  all  in  pieces,  and  now  my  frying-pan  is  ruined,  for 
the  tin  lining  has  melted,  though  there  was  plenty  of 

*  I  ought  to  have  used  more  grease.  The  French  cooks  fry 
potatoes  in  great  quantities  of  melted  lard,  so  as  to  immerse 
them  in  a  sea  of  boiling  oil.  Thus  they  may  be  sufficiently 
cooked  without  losing  that  artistic  gold  color  I  was  trying  for. 
It  is  very  well,  however,  that  I  knew  no  better.  If  I  had  sus- 
pected that  plenty  of  lard  was  all  that  was  wanted,  I  should 
infallibly  have  set  fire  to  my  habitation. 


Housekeeper  and  Cook.  19 


grease,  and  I  turned  the  cutlet  continually.  I  must 
have  a  little  iron  frying-pan. 

The  result  of  these  annoyances  is,  that  I  mean  to 
get  as  much  provision  as  I  can  eat  whilst  it  is  good, 
by  a  weekly  messenger  from  home,  and  to  confine  my 
cookery  to  porridge,  coffee  and  tea,  eggs,  and  a  cutlet 
occasionally.  I  expect  Jamie  here  one  of  these  days 
with  a  basketful  of  roast  beef,  roast  grouse,  potted 
partridge,  and  other  provisions  ;  in  the  mean  time,  I 
have  nothing  but  raw  meat  in  a  safe  outside  the  hut, 
and  must  struggle  bravely  against  adversity.  O  for  the 
skill  of  a  Soyer  !  — and  materials  to  exercise  it  upon. 

But  what  I  hate  most  is  the  washing-up.  I  tried  it 
once  with  cold  water,  but  it  would  not  do  ;  the  fat 
stuck  faster  than  ever  to  the  plates.  I  know  better 
now,  and  heat  the  water,  which  melts  the  fat,  and  so 
I  get  my  plates  tolerably  clean.  How  I  do  admire 
and  respect  all  scullery-maids  !  What  skill  and  in- 
dustry do  they  not  all  exhibit !  these  young  ladies 
whose  profession,  in  this  wise  country  of  ours  (as 
Thackeray  said  of  painting),  is  scarcely  looked  upon 
as  liberal. 

How  pleasant  it  would  be  if  one  could  live  upon  the 
incense  of  cigars !  A  cigar  needeth  not  to  be  cooked, 
and  it  entaileth  not  the  subsequent  troubles  of  washing- 
up.  A  cigar  will  keep  for  years ;  it  is  light  and 
portable ;  it  is  a  very  miracle  of  convenience !  It 
yieldeth  its  sweet  smoke  in  a  moment,  and  wearieth 
not  the  patience  of  him  who  desireth  its  consolations. 
O,  how  happy  would  that  painter  be  who  could  dwell 
for  weeks  upon  the  lonely  hills,  with  no  other  provis- 
ion than  the  contents  of  a  little  pink-edged  box  of 
cedar-wood,  decorated  with  outlandish  heraldries,  and 
an  inscription  in  the  Spanish  tongue  ! 


20 


CHAPTER  V. 

ADVANTAGES  OF  THE  HUT. 

HERE  am  I,  painting  from  nature  on  a  Lancashire 
moor  twelve  hundred  feet  high,  in  the  month  of 
October,  in  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  with  my  color- 
box  on  a  table  by  my  side,  and  every  convenience  and 
comfort  about  me.  Any  one  who  doubts  the  utility 
of  this  hut  may  come  and  do  without  it  what  I  have 
done  to-day.  For  six  hours  I  have  calmly  studied  the 
heather  tuft  by  tuft,  and  the  grass  blade  by  blade,  and 
the  green  mosses  and  delicate  small  fern,  when  you 
would  not  have  turned  a  dog  out  of  doors,  and  the 
shepherds  themselves  refuse  to  wander  on  the  hills. 
On  such  a  day  what  painter  could  work  outside  in  the 
wind?  I  can  scarcely  conceive  the  results  to  my  suc- 
cess in  art  that  may  follow  from  this  contrivance.  My 
winter  studies  will  be  as  perfect  as  my  summer  ones. 

The  weather  is  of  little  consequence  now,  as  far  as 
work  is  concerned.  I  shall  keep  steadily  to  my  paint- 
ing, however  wet  it  may  be,  unless  the  wind  should 
cover  my  plate-glass  with  rain-drops,  which  will  only 
happen  when  it  is  in  the  west,  and  even  then  I  could 
study  out  of  another  of  my  four  windows.  An  ex- 
ceedingly heavy  fog  would  also  interrupt  even  fore- 
ground study,  but  from  mere  wind  and  cold  I  have 
nothing  to  fear.  Every  morning  I  awake  close  to  my 
work,  and,  as  the  place  is  lonely  enough,  may  reason- 


Advantages  of  the  Hut. 


21 


ably  hope  to  pursue  it  in  peace.  The  bitterest  gale 
that  ever  stiffened  the  morass  would  not  benumb  my 
hand,  and  I  could  copy  the  storm-sculptured  curves 
and  azure  shadows  of  the  snowdrift  as  deliberately  as 
the  purple  heaths  of  autumn  or  the  tender  flowers  of 
spring. 

Yes,  the  hut  is  a  success !  Greater  space  with 
greater  portability  might  perhaps  be  desirable,  and  in 
some  future  embodiment  of  the  same  idea  not  difficult 
to  realize.  Still,  the  plan  has  succeeded  to  the  full.  I 
can  study  nature  now  in  winter  as  well  as  in  summer. 
I  have  gained  six  months  a  year  for  my  art.  Ten 
years  of  life  are  as  good  to  me  now  as  twenty  were 
before  !  There  will  be  no  limit  to  my  progress  in  the 
knowledge  of  nature  but  the  limits  of  life  itself.  I  shall 
not  have  to  shut  myself  up  and  fret  my  heart  out  in  a 
studio  every  wet  day.  In  the  Highlands  I  shall  not 
lose  sixty  or  seventy  per  cent,  of  daylight  hours  on 
account  of  the  climate. 

I  begin  to  see  already  how  this  idea  may  be  ex- 
panded into  still  greater  usefulness.  The  heat  and 
glare  of  summer  are  almost  as  troublesome  to  a  painter 
as  rain  and  cold.  I  perceive  that  this  hut,  which  pro- 
tects me  well  enough  against  cold,  would  be  no  pro- 
tection whatever  against  heat ;  it  is  not  lofty  enough, 
nor  large  enough.  But  no  mere  inconvenience  of  cli- 
mate ought  to  conquer  a  painter  who  is  really  anxious 
to  study,  and  at  the  same  time  both  ingenious  in  devis- 
ing expedients  and  determined  in  the  application  of 
them. 

The  study  of  nature  having  been  hitherto  the  small- 
est and  most  neglected  part  of  the  labors  of  the  land- 
scape-painter, instead  of  the  great  enjoyment  and  aim 


22 


Advantages  of  the  Hut. 


of  his  existence,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  an  age  so 
fertile  in  other  useful  inventions  should  have  been  able 
to  hit  upon  no  better  contrivance  to  shelter  a  painter 
during  his  hours  of  study  than  a  white  cotton  um- 
brella, or  a  little  tent  with  one  end  open.  The  truth 
is,  nobody  has  cared  enough  about  the  matter  to  be 
thoroughly  in  earnest.  Turner's  work,  and  Stanfield's 
too,  and  all  the  work  of  the  minor  painters  who  aim 
at  the  same  results,  is  essentially  a  matter  of  memory 
and  invention  —  memory  as  to  effect,  invention  as  to 
subordinate  detail  and  arrangement  of  subject.  To 
paint  well  on  these  principles  requires  colossal  pow- 
ers ;  and  even  granting  him  such  genius  as  occurs 
perhaps  once  in  several  centuries,  the  painter  who 
works  on  such  principles  is  liable  to  frequent  failures, 
and  failures  precisely  of  that  kind  which  a  fastidious 
public  is  less  and  less  disposed  to  tolerate  in  every  suc- 
cessive Academy  exhibition.  But  since  in  the  study 
of  nature  there  are  two  distinct  classes  of  difficulties,  — 
the  intellectual  difficulties,  which  affect  only  the  mind 
of  the  artist,  and  the  physical  difficulties,  which  affect 
first  his  body,  yet  necessarily  the  mind  also  through  the 
body,  —  it  is  evident  that  whoever  will  entirely  elimi- 
nate even  one  class  only  of  these  difficulties  will  have 
rendered  an  inestimable  service  to  art.  By  relieving 
the  painter  from  all  physical  inconvenience  you  also 
assist  him  in  his  intellectual  labor,  and  that  to  a  degree 
scarcely  conceivable  by  any  one  not  practically  an 
artist.  For  the  unrecorded  tortures  of  burning  sun, 
and  bitter  wind,  and  biting  frost,  and  penetrating  rain, 
the  Egyptian  plagues  of  flies,  the  Russian  plagues  of 
hail  and  snow  —  all  hard  enough  to  be  borne  even  by 
strong  soldiers  in  constant  exercise  —  are  terrible  trials 


Advantages  of  the  Hut. 


23 


to  a  refined  artist,  delicately  organized,  who  has  to 
support  them  with  the  quiet  patience  of  a  martyr. 

Nobody  knows  what  it  is,  who  has  not  tried,  to  sit 
from  morning  till  night  before  an  easel,  in  the  open 
air,  exposed  to  every  caprice  of  the  weather,  with  a 
pulse  not  quickened  to  resistance  by  vigorous  exercise, 
but  languidly  yielding  to  the  gradual  mastery  of  the 
cruel  cold.  The  policeman  and  the  sentinel  may 
march  about,  the  disengaged  cabman  may  beat  his 
blood  into  something  like  circulation  by  throwing  his 
arms  across  his  breast,  but  the  painter  is  employed 
on  work  so  delicate,  that,  as  he  lays  on  his  tender- 
est  touches,  he  cannot  even  breathe,  respiration  itself 
being  too  disturbing  a  movement,  and  the  only  chance 
of  stirring  he  can  hope  for  is  in  deserting  his  post 
altogether  from  time  to  time.  Then  the  rain  comes  to 
dabble  his  drawing,  and  he  puts  it  hastily  by,  and 
waits  perhaps  half  a  day  for  a  chance  of  returning  to 
his  work.  So  his  precious  time  for  study  slips  out  of 
his  hands,  and  leaves  no  complete  or  perfect  result, 
but  only  unfinished  fragments,  discouragement,  and 
vexation. 

Does  not  the  intellectual  labor  of  the  artist  provide 
trials  enough  for  the  saintliest  patience,  without  join- 
ing to  its  inevitable  difficulties  the  simultaneous  suffer- 
ings of  the  body?  We  painters  have  no  particular 
vocation  for  voluntary  martyrdom.  The  mortification 
of  bur  bodies  will  not  make  our  pictures  perfect,  but 
the  reverse.  It  is  not  amongst  our  duties  to  injure  or 
destroy  the  delicate  machinery  with  which  we  produce 
our  results,  but  rather  to  protect  it  from  every  adverse 
influence,  and  preserve  it  in  the  highest  attainable 
state  of  efficiency. 


24 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT  THE  PEOPLE  THINK. 

"  AAT^^^  *  must  do  is  all  that  concerns  me,  not 
V  V  what  the  people  think.  This  rule,"  says 
Emerson,  "  equally  arduous  in  actual  and  in  intellec- 
tual life,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinction  between 
greatness  and  meanness." 

When  art  shall  be  better  understood,  its  followers 
will  have  less  occasion  for  the  spirit  of  self-reliance, 
but  in  our  day  the  only  philosophy  for  the  painter  is 
the  Emersonian  doctrine  of  individualism.  It  is,  how- 
ever, very  unpleasant  to  have  to  assume  this  ungra- 
cious attitude  of  resistance  and  opposition.  It  is 
especially  distasteful  to  persons  who,  like  myself,  have 
a  keen  relish  for  friendship,  and  to  whom  the  society 
of  cultivated  persons  is  a  necessary  of  life.  And  yet 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  find  it  quite  impossible  to 
make  people  understand  what  I  am  here  for ;  all  ex- 
planation is  useless.  There  is  nothing  left  to  me  but 
quiet  persistence  and  the  patient  endeavor  to  keep  my 
temper,  with  God's  help. 

With  one  or  two  honorable  exceptions,  the  good 
folks  here,  whenever  they  hear  of  a  painter,  think  it  is 
a  sort  of  artisan  whose  trade  it  is  to  draw  their  horses 
and  dogs  ;  and  they  cannot  comprehend,  for  the  life  of 
them,  what  I  can  find  to  paint  in  such  an  out-of-the- 
way  place  as  this.    People  who  are  not  only  no  judges 


What  the  People  think. 


25 


of  landscape-painting,  but  not  even  aware  of  its  exist- 
ence as  a  living  and  progressive  art  in  England,  are 
of  course  astonished  when  they  hear  me  assign  as  a 
reason  for  my  hermit  life  on  this  hill  that  I  am  paint- 
ing a  study  of  heather.*  They  have  a  dim  notion 
about  painters  that  they  go  to  Rome  when  they  can 
afford  it,  and  copy  Claude,  but  as  for  painting  on  a 
moor,  why,  moors  were  made  to  be  shot  over.  Rich 
people  often  suppose  the  end  of  art  to  be  the  direct 
adoration  of  Wealth  ;  either  by  painting  its  portrait,  or 
its  wife's  portrait,  or  its  horse,  or  its  dog,  or  its  dwell- 
ing-house, or  anything  that  is  its.  This  is  quite  a 
country  gentleman's  conception  of  art,  and  we  ought 
to  regard  it  leniently,  for  it  requires  much  education 
to  enable  a  man  of  property  to  comprehend  that  ob- 
jects of  little  value  in  themselves  may  be  inestimably 
precious  to  an  artist,  and  that  even  the  squire's  big 
house,  and  his  well-groomed  hunters,  and  rich,  neatly- 
fenced  fields,  may  not  be  worth  so  much,  artistically 
valued,  as  a  poor  cottage  on  the  mountains,  with  a 
goat  grazing  at  the  door,  and  a  half-wild  fawn  crouch- 
ing in  the  heather,  that  the  children  feed,  for  it  is 
motherless. 

It  would  be  exceedingly  weak  and  silly  to  allow 

*  The  son  of  a  Lancashire  country  gentleman  once  observed 
to  the  author,  "  There  is  no  painting  now;  we  never  hear  of 
any  painters."  He  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  Royal 
Academy  in  England ;  he  had  never  heard  anybody  mention 
modern  painters.  The  father  of  this  youth  declared  to  the 
author  that  he  would  not  give  ten  pounds  for  the  finest  pic- 
ture in  the  world,  unless  to  sell  it  at  a  profit ;  and  these  were 
people  of  property,  and  belonging  to  a  family  whose  descent 
was  not  merely  ancient,  but  illustrious. 


26 


What  the  People  think. 


one's  self  to  be  angry  with  kind  friends  on  this  account, 
especially  since  it  is  quite  clear  that  their  comments 
proceed  less  from  ill-nature  than  honest,  unaffected 
astonishment ;  still,  to  be  frank,  I  am  getting  some- 
what weary  of  the  polite  expressions  of  wonder  that 
have  reached  me  from  every  quarter  for  some  time 
now.  The  marvel  is  a  month  old,  at  least,  and  nine 
days  is  the  extreme  degree  of  longevity  to  which  any 
marvel,  even  a  provincial  one,  ought  legitimately  to 
attain. 

I  do  not  think  this  little  enterprise  has  much  affected 
my  standing  with  the  upper  classes.  I  have  a  conven- 
ient reputation  for  eccentricity,  which  allows  me  to  do 
whatever  I  will.  After  the  first  wonderment  about  my 
hut-life  has  exhausted  itself,  I  should  think  it  probable 
that  it  will  be  remembered  only  as  a  mere  whim  or 
freak.  It  may  perhaps  excite  a  little  hostility  amongst 
the  more  ignorant  sort  of  gentry,  but  they  will  be  too 
polite  to  trouble  me  very  much  with  their  impressions, 
and  I  don't  care  what  they  say  behind  my  back. 

But  I  have  certainly  lost  caste  in  the  popular  esti- 
mate. I  am  even  beginning  to  feel  that  I  am  not 
respectable,  and  to  lose  the  relish  for  respect.  If  any 
one  were  to  treat  me  as  a  gentleman  now,  I  should  be 
very  much  astonished,  and  hardly  know  how  to  sup- 
port the  dignity. 

In  what  consists  this  subtle  element,  this  ethereal 
emanation,  this  transient  halo  of  glory  that  shines  on 
high  caste?    In  modern  society  what  is  caste? 

That  it  is  easily  lost  is  evident.  Mine  evaporated 
in  an  hour  over  the  heat  of  Soyer's  magic  stove.  The 
first  time  I  cooked  my  own  dinner  all  my  forefathers 
disowned  me. 


What  the  People  think. 


27 


The  popular  notion  of  a  gentleman  is  that  he  has 
plenty  of  money  and  nothing  to  do.  If  you  are  not 
utterly  helpless,  you  are  no  gentleman.  If  you  would 
be  respected,  be  lazy.  Beware  of  the  sin  of  self- 
reliance.  It  is  very  well  for  great  men  like  the  Czar 
Peter,  the  Emperor  Napoleon,  and  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington to  be  active  and  self-reliant ;  we  of  the  middle 
class  must  be  lazier  than  they,  if  we  would  inspire  awe 
in  the  bosoms  of  our  inferiors. 

I  knew  an  Oriental  Envoy  once  at  the  Hotel  du 
Louvre,  at  Paris ;  we  studied  French  together  for 
some  weeks.  The  waiters  called  him  "  the  Prince" 
—  he  was  no  prince  at  all,  but  only  a  rich  private  gen- 
tleman. A  brother  of  one  of  the  kings  of  Europe  was 
staying  in  the  same  hotel  at  the  same  time,  but  my 
friend  outshone  the  genuine  blood-royal,  and  remained 
the  Prince  during  our  stay  there,  though  he  refused 
the  title  twenty  times  a  day.  At  last  he  asked  me 
why  the  people  would  persist  in  making  him  a  prince 
against  his  will.  "  My  good  fellow,"  said  I,  "  it's  be- 
cause you  are  so  royally  lazy.  These  people  have  a 
graduated  scale  by  which  they  measure  a  man's  rank. 
'  Man,'  they  argue,  '  is  naturally  an  idle  animal ;  only 
when  poor  he  is  forced  to  do  everything  for  himself. 
Therefore,  the  less  a  man  can  do  for  himself,  the  richer 
he  is  likely  to  be.  Now,  this  Eastern  gentleman  is 
absolutely  helpless  —  as  helplesss  as  a  baby  a  month 
old  ;  he  cannot  even  put  on  his  slippers  without  assist- 
ance —  and  therefore,  of  course,  he  is  somebody  very 
great  indeed.  He  is  a  prince,  at  least,  that  is  cer- 
tain ! ' " 

The  peasants  on  these  outlandish  moors  argue  pre- 
cisely like  the  Parisian  waiters.    "  A  real  gentleman 


28 


What  the  People  think 


is  as  helpless  as  a  child ;  but  this  man  can  cook  for 
himself,  and  seems  quite  independent  of  assistance  ; 
therefore,  he  is  no  gentleman."  There  is  no  danger 
of  my  being  inconvenienced  by  princely  honors.  On 
my  arrival  here  I  found  that  a  gruff  gamekeeper 
looked  upon  me  as  a  possible  poacher ;  farmers  asked 
me  what  I  hawked,  and  drovers  thought  I  kept  a 
dram-shop.  Women  came  to  have  their  fortunes  told, 
and  children  to  see  a  show. 

Since  I  neither  poached  game,  nor  sold  spoons,  nor 
retailed  gin,  nor  told  fortunes,  nor  exhibited  wild 
beasts,  these  several  hypotheses  are  by  the  most  part 
abandoned.  I  am  still,  however,  so  far  from  being 
respected,  that  of  the  thousand  questions  put  to  me  by 
curious  peasants  who  flock  from  all  parts  of  the  coun- 
try to  see  me,  not  ten  per  cent,  are  without  insolence, 
at  least  of  manner. 

I  never  before  thoroughly  understood  the  contempt 
the  English  have  for  poverty.  A  gentleman  who 
fancied  his  inferiors  very  civil  and  polite,  would  learn 
to  distinguish  between  the  deference  yielded  to  his 
money  and  the  true  politeness  which  is  universal  as 
the  sunshine,  by  abandoning  for  a  week  or  two  the  ex- 
ternal advantages  of  his  position,  as  I  have  done  here. 

The  notions  of  the  peasantry  on  the  subject  of  the 
art  itself  are,  as  is  to  be  expected,  even  less  elevated 
than  the  ideas  of  the  upper  class.  The  country  peo- 
ple always  suppose  landscape-painting  to  be  land- 
surveying  ;  a  mistake  likely  to  be  universal  throughout 
England,  since  the  Ordnance  surveys.  I  was  painting 
an  oil  study  of  an  oak  tree  some  time  ago,  and  a  game- 
keeper in  going  his  rounds  came  every  day  to  see  how 
I  got  on.    A  quiet  expression  of  contempt,  mingled 


What  the  People  think. 


29 


with  pity,  and  tempered  with  a  lively  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  illuminated  his  intellectual  physiognomy  as 
he  watched  me  at  work.  He  evidently  did  not  think 
such  a  valueless  old  tree  worth  "  mappin'  "  at  all,  and, 
as  my  study  advanced  towards  its  conclusion,  asked 
every  day  with  something  of  impatience,  when  I 
u  should  a'  done  mappin'  th'  oud  tree." 

Droves  of  pack-horses  cross  these  hills  frequently 
with  lime.  I  know  the  owners  of  them  tolerably 
well,  having  sometimes  had  occasion  for  their  ponies. 
Meeting  one  of  these  drovers  the  other  day,  I  recog- 
nized in  the  driver  an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  always 
keeps  up  the  acquaintance  with  much  polite  assiduity, 
having  ultimate  views  to  pints  of  ale.  The  following 
conversation  on  the  fine  arts  then  took  place  between 
us :  — 

Drover.  —  Eh,  why,  Mestur  Amerton,  is  tat  yau? 
The  Author. — Yes;  you  did  not  expect  to  find 
me  here? 

Drover. — Why,  noah,  it's  sich  a  lonesome  sort  of 
a  place,  loike. 

The  Author.  —  Well,  but  I  live  here  now;  I'm 
not  far  from  my  new  house,  —  you  must  come  and 
look  at  it,  and  have  a  drop  of  whiskey. 

Drover.  —  Thank  ye,  sir,  thank  ye;  but  Fn  never 
yerd  tell  o'  yau  biggin'  a  new  ayus ;  I  alius  thout 
yau're  livin'  at  th'  Ollins. 

The  Author.  —  O,  Fve  built  a  wonderful  house  — 
about  the  size  of  a  hen-cote  ;  it's  only  a  wooden  one, 
you  must  know. 

Drover.  — Why,  an'  what  are  ye  livin'  up  'ere  for, 
i'  sich  a  mooryet  place?  Are  ye  shootin',  loike,  Mes- 
tur Amerton? 


3° 


What  the  People  think. 


The  Author.  —  No;  I  have  not  killed  a  grouse 
since  I  came  here.    I  came  here  to  paint  a  picture. 

Drover.  —  A  picthur  I  —  why,  an'  what's  tat  ? 

The  Author — {adopting  the  drover's  dialect  to 
be  better  understood}.  It's  one  o'  them  things  as  rich 
folks  'angs  up  i'  their  'ouses  i'  goold  frames,  yau  knaw, 
to  make  their  walls  look  fine.  Yau'n  sin  picthurs  wi' 
snaps  o'  Prince  Alburd  an'  th'  Queen,  and  th'  Duke  o' 
Wellinton,  an'  sich  loike,  i'  o'  colors.  Them's  pic- 
thurs ;  naah  yau  knaw,  dunnut  ye?  * 

Then  glimmering  visions  of  cottage  art  arose  before 
the  soul  of  the  drover,  dim  recollections  of  saints  and 
soldiers  in  gorgeous  hues,  and  his  old  eye  brightened 
with  a  beam  of  intelligence.  We  had  now  arrived  at 
the  hut.  Gratitude  for  the  whiskey,  and  perhaps  also 
the  pleasing  influences  of  the  cordial  itself,  gave  my 
poor  friend  such  sudden  power  of  criticism  that  he  ex- 
pressed his  appreciation  in  the  warmest  manner,  and 
as  politely,  in  his  way,  as  the  most  complimentary 
after-dinner  connoisseur. 

It  being  universally  settled  and  decided  for  me  all 
the  country  over  that  I  am  land-surveying,  it  is  no  use 
contradicting  the  good  folks  any  longer.  Why  not  ac- 
cept the  position  ? 

I  am,  however,  considered  a  very  slow  surveyor. 
There  are  men  in  the  neighboring  towns  who  could 

*  For  the  convenience  of  Southrons  I  translate  the  above 
learned  definition  of  a  picture.  "It's  one  of  those  things  that 
rich  people  hang  up  in  their  houses,  in  gold  frames,  you  know, 
to  make  their  walls  look  fine.  You've  seen  pictures  with 
shapes  (likenesses)  of  Prince  Albert  and  the  Queen,  and  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  and  such  like,  and  all  colors.  Those  are 
pictures ;  now  you  know,  don't  you  ?  " 


What  the  People  think. 


3i 


survey  the  whole  mountain  in  a  week,  and  here  am  I, 
wasting  a  month  over  a  few  square  yards  of  it.  The 
people  say  that  I  am  the  slowest  and  most  incapable 
bungler  that  ever  measured  an  acre  of  land. 

There  are  two  exceptions  to  the  general  impression 
that  I  am  engaged  in  surveying  land.  But  the  esti- 
mate which  these  two  superior  persons  have  formed 
of  my  capacity  for  art  is  not  flattering.  It  is  true  that 
neither  of  them  has  seen  my  picture,  but  that  is  as  un- 
necessary for  these  rustic  judges  as  for  a  London  jour- 
nalist. My  country  critics  ground  their  argument  sim- 
ply upon  the  length  of  time  which  I  bestow  upon  the 
work.  One  of  them  has  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all  his  friends  that  I  am  a  great  fool  to  come  here  and 
spend  whole  weeks  on  the  production  of  a  picture, 
wThen  I  might  buy  one  equally  good  at  Colne  fair, 
with  frame,  glass,  and  all,  for  sixpence.  The  other 
has  heard  that  my  canvas  is  only  three  feet  square, 
and  has  demonstrated  from  arithmetical  data  that  I  am 
the  slowest  workman  in  Lancashire,  as  there  are  plen- 
ty of  painters  who  could  paint  all  the  wood-work  in  a 
farm-house  in  less  than  a  week. 


32 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TROUBLESOME  VISITORS. 

AS  I  lay  in  my  hammock  in  the  dark  —  I  know 
not  at  what  hour  of  the  night  or  early  morn- 
ing—  I  heard  a  horrible  yell.  It  was  close  to  the 
door  of  my  hut ;  so  close  that  it  seemed  to  proceed 
from  some  idiot,  or  wild  beast,  or  fiend,  that  had 
already  penetrated  to  the  interior.  I  was  startled 
out  of  my  sleep,  and  grasped  my  revolver  before  I 
had  any  clear  notion  of  the  kind  of  attack  I  had  to 
apprehend.  A  minute  afterwards,  wide  awake,  I 
sat  listening  to  the  most  virulent  abuse  imaginable  ; 
holding  all  the  while  the  loaded  revolver,  and  watch- 
ing the  door  noiselessly  ;  ready,  on  the  first  attempt 
against  it,  to  send  a  bullet  or  two  through  its  thin 
wooden  panels.  A  large  stone  through  the  window 
seemed  more  to  be  expected  than  an  attack  upon  the 
door ;  but,  unless  the  stone  disabled  me,  I  felt  sure  of 
wounding  the  besieger  in  any  case,  and  so  reserved 
my  five  barrels  for  the  last  extremity. 

I  cannot  repeat,  in  a  paper  intended  for  future  pub- 
lication, the  particular  phrases  of  invective  directed 
against  me  by  my  visitor  ;  and  it  is  impossible,  with- 
out such  repetition,  to  give  a  true  idea  of  their  bitter- 
ness. It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  exhausted  every 
term  of  reproach,  and  every  expression  of  hatred, 
which  is  to  be  found  in  such  English  as  they  speak 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


33 


in  this  desert ;  that  he  poured  upon  me  the  whole 
vocabulary  of  foulness,  and  that  the  delicately-chosen 
theme  of  his  discourse  was  the  death  of  my  own 
mother. 

It  was  a  genuine  commination  —  a  denouncing  of 
God's  wrath — a  worse  than  priestly  anathema  —  a 
great  and  mighty  cursing!  The  theological  hatreds 
of  centuries  have  not  produced  a  more  powerful  for- 
mula than  the  simple  improvisation  of  this  man's 
anger. 

Now,  I  reasoned  with  myself,  "  This  fellow  may 
attack  me,  and  I  have  certainly  a  good  chance  of  pre- 
venting him,  for  the  deal  door  is  no  impediment  what- 
ever to  a  bullet ;  still,  though  his  talk  is  irritating 
enough,  I  have  clearly  no  right  to  shoot  him  merely 
because  he  calls  me  hard  names.  So  I  will  be  as 
quiet  as  I  can  till  he  attacks  me  with  some  other 
member  than  his  tongue  only."  Wherefore  I  sat  up 
in  bed  as  calmly  as  my  now  increasing  irritation 
would  allow,  and  directed  my  revolver  to  the  door 
or  the  window  as  the  voice  changed  in  direction. 

It  was  a  queer  position,  certainly.  "  What  if  this 
fellow  is  only  vexing  me,"  I  thought,  "  so  as  to  make 
me  open  the  door  of  the  hut  to  him  and  his  accom- 
plices?" He  called  out  continually,  "  Shoot !  shoot, 
man,  shoot ! "  which  might  mean  that  he  wanted  me 
to  discharge  any  firearms  I  had  before  he  attempted 
to  break  in  upon  me.  This  was  a  proof  that  the  fel- 
low knew  I  was  armed  ;  but  there  was  nothing  re- 
markable in  that  circumstance,  as  I  had  taken  especial 
care  to  make  my  means  of  defence  generally  known 
by  practising  often  with  my  pistol.  So  I  thought  the 
wisest  plan  would  be  to  sit  still  for  the  present  and  do 

3 


34 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


nothing,  as  it  would  be  an  embarrassing  position  for 
me  if  the  country  people  found  a  dead  man  at  my  door 
next  morning,  with  a  bullet  in  him,  and  a  little  hole 
through  the  door,  indicating  whence  the  bullet  had 
come.  "  There  is  no  telling  how  stupid  a  jury  may 
be,"  thought  I ;  "  and,  besides,  if  I  shoot  this  fellow, 
I  shall  be  served  up  by  ten  thousand  penny-a-liners 
in  all  the  newspapers  in  England,  and  a  pretty  affair 
they  will  make  of  my  camp  life  here,  and  the  reasons 
for  it." 

Suddenly  the  commination  came  to  a  close,  the 
torrent  of  anathemas  was  arrested,  the  horrible  howls, 
the  demoniac  laughter,  and  the  piercing  yells,  which 
had  succeeded  each  other  now  for  many  minutes, 
ceased  altogether ;  a  wild  shriek  or  two  came  from 
the  moor,  fainter  and  fainter,  as  if  retiring  in  the 
distance,  then  all  was  still. 

A  little  suspicious  at  first  of  this  sudden  stillness,  I 
listened  attentively  for  some  sound  that  might  indicate 
a  less  noisy  but  more  dangerous  attack  ;  but  I  was  soon 
tired  of  listening,  and  so  laid  my  revolver  in  its  case, 
which  I  left  open,  and  then  fell  asleep. 

Again  I  was  roused  suddenly  by  the  same  voice, 
but  this  time  it  was  in  daylight.  The  cursing  was  re- 
newed in  all  its  old  vigor  ;  but  as  I  now  felt  sure  that 
the  fellow,  though  noisy  enough,  was  a  thorough 
coward,  and  dared  not  attack  me  till  I  had  first  dis- 
charged my  revolver,  I  paid  no  attention,  but  got  a 
book  and  tried  to  read.  When  the  man  left  me,  the 
heathcocks  crowed,  and  the  early  sun  shone  through 
the  green  curtains,  and  it  was  time  to  get  up.  So  the 
affair  ended  in  nothing  after  all. 

During  the  whole  time  my  big  dog  never  even 
growled.    He  is  quite  worthless. 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


35 


They  call  the  poachers  here  "  the  Night  Hunters." 
I  expect  a  visit  from  them  every  night,  and  queer 
visitors  they  are  likely  to  be.  I  have  a  revolver  and 
dog,  but  the  revolver  has  only  five  barrels,  and  the  dog 
is  the  most  amiable  and  hospitable  creature  imagi- 
nable, and  would  receive  a  fellow  that  came  to  murder 
me  as  politely  as  my  most  intimate  friend.  If  the 
Night  Hunters  do  me  the  honor  to  call  upon  me,  I 
mean  to  pursue  a  peace  policy.  For  the  present  I 
keep  within  doors  at  night,  when  these  banded  out- 
laws range  the  moors. 

The  Night  Hunters  in  this  neighborhood  are  as 
determined  a  set  of  blackguards  as  ever  leagued  them- 
selves together  for  a  lawless  enterprise.  Fancy  thirty 
or  forty  of  them  in  a  gang,  well  armed,  and  with 
blackened  faces.  On  one  occasion  a  company  of  sixty 
set  out  on  a  shooting  excursion,  some  of  them  dressed 
in  women's  clothes,  others  as  devils  with  straw  tails, 
and  all  of  them  in  the  wildest  masquerade,  and  not  to 
be  recognized  by  the  sharpest  of  detectives.  The 
keepers  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  attacking  a 
French  army  as  this  gang  of  desperadoes.  If  they 
take  it  into  their  heads  to  upset  my  box  when  I'm 
inside  it,  that  will  be  pleasant !  Nothing  could  be 
more  likely  to  afford  the  fellows  congenial  amuse- 
ment ;  and  then  perhaps  they  may  set  fire  to  it,  and 
the  pitched  canvas  of  the  roof  would  burn  delightfully 
on  a  dry  night !  Then  it  would  be  quite  a  clever  and 
facetious  practical  joke  to  send  a  charge  of  shot 
through  the  window,  a  witticism  all  the  pleasanter 
that  the  modest  author  of  it  could  so  easily  remain 
anonymous. 

Some  years  ago  these  merry  foresters  took  it  into 


36 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


their  heads  to  have  a  day's  shooting  on  the  cultivated 
lands  nearer  the  valley.  They  made  a  descent  on 
three  estates  belonging  to  friends  or  relations  of  mine. 
It  was  quite  a  Highland  raid.  The  Night  Hunters 
brought  with  them  people  to  beat  the  covers,  and 
others  to  carry  the  game,  and,  in  spite  of  landlords 
and  gamekeepers,  bagged  a  rich  booty  of  hares  and 
pheasants,  with  which  they  returned  unmolested  to 
their  mountains. 

The  proprietor  of  the  best  moor  in  this  neighbor- 
hood is  organizing  a  little  regiment  of  rustics  for  the 
protection  of  his  grouse.  They  say  that  each  man 
will  have  half-a-crown  and  his  supper  every  time  he 
goes  on  duty.  This  will  be  too  expensive  to  be  con- 
tinued long,  and  therefore  the  protection  will  be  only 
temporary,  whereas,  to  be  effective,  it  must  necessari- 
ly be  permanent.  All  systems  of  defence  are  useless 
which  have  only  an  intermittent  character,  when  the 
danger  to  be  apprehended  is  constant. 

As  for  the  poachers  themselves,  they  are  partly 
actuated  by  the  love  of  adventure ;  partly  by  the 
hunter's  instinct,  which  they  share  with  their  betters  ; 
and  partly  by  a  rude  but  half-chivalrous  desire  to 
avenge  such  friends  of  theirs  as  have  found  their  way 
to  the  penal  settlements  in  consequence  of  similar 
irregularities. 

The  Night  Hunters  have  left  me  unmolested.  No 
excursion  of  theirs  has  hitherto  extended  so  far  as  this 
place.  Still  I  have  plenty  of  visitors,  and  instead  of 
being  weary  of  the  loneliness  of  this  place,  as  all  my 
friends  think  I  must  of  necessity  be  by  this  time,  I  am 
constantly  wishing  it  were  much  lonelier. 

I  am  the  centre  of  attraction  to  all  the  country  peo- 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


37 


pie  within  a  circle  fourteen  miles  in  diameter.  Im- 
mense numbers  of  women  and  children  come  to  see 
the  hut ;  the  male  visitors  are  less  numerous,  but  more 
troublesome  and  impertinent.  If  my  dog  were  worth 
anything  I  could  keep  these  people  at  a  respectful 
distance,  but  I  have  no  means  whatever  of  doing  so  on 
my  own  responsibility.  Without  being  bloodthirsty,  I 
confess  it  would  give  me  much  pleasure  to  shoot  a  few 
spectators  occasionally,  by  way  of  teaching  them  to  be 
civil ;  but  prudence  compels  me  to  keep  the  revolver 
in  its  box,  and  put  as  good  a  countenance  on  the 
matter  as  my  feelings  of  irritation  will  permit. 

I  can  fully  understand  the  refined  tortures  of  a 
monkey  of  modest  disposition  exhibited  in  a  menage- 
rie. I  am  like  one  of  WombwelPs  animals,  shown 
daily,  without  either  pleasure  or  profit  to  himself,  to  a 
pitiless  crowd  at  a  village  fair ;  but  I  have  the  pecu- 
liar disadvantage  of  understanding  the  language  in 
which  the  various  commentaries  on  my  person  are 
expressed. 

My  plate-glass  windows  are  exceedingly  convenient, 
since  they  allow  the  public  to  inspect  the  animal  at 
its  usual  occupations  ;  most  interesting  observations  in 
natural  history  being  thus  rendered  possible,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  glass  beehives  at  the  French  Universal 
Exhibition.  From  frequent  observations  of  this  kind, 
made  with  the  utmost  care  by  several  eminent  zoolo- 
gists, it  appears  that  I,  the  animal  in  question,  am 
not  of  a  gregarious  disposition  ;  that  I  eat  the  flesh  of 
birds  and  other  animals,  but  not  in  a  raw  state  ;  and 
that  I  am  remarkable  for  my  industry,  being  con- 
tinually occupied  with  a  kind  of  labor  whose  object 
and  utility  are  still  the  subject  of  various  learned 


33 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


conjectures.  The  important  question  whether  I  am 
acquainted  with  the  use  of  fire  is  not  as  yet  satisfac- 
torily settled,  but  there  are  reasons  for  supposing  that 
I  am,  since  the  flesh  I  devour  has  evidently  been  sub- 
jected to  the  action  of  heat ;  still  this  question  remains 
somewhat  obscure,  no  trace  whatever  of  fuel  having 
been  discovered  in  my  cell,  nor  any  orifice  for  the 
escape  of  smoke. 

Years  hence,  when  this  is  printed,  the  reader  will 
think  these  passages  exaggerated  ;  he  will  not  believe 
that  I  am  stared  at  like  a  wild  beast.  I  tell  him  that 
the  manners  of  a  set  of  villagers  to  an  itinerant  brown 
bear  are  pleasanter  and  more  courteous,  and  in  every 
way  less  intolerable,  than  the  manners  of  these  Lanca- 
shire and  Yorkshire  clowns  are  to  me. 

Take  last  Sunday  as  an  example.  I  was  walking 
on  the  moor,  wTith  my  dog,  and  rested  on  the  hill 
wThence  I  could  see  the  hut.  Groups  began  to  collect 
about  it  soon,  and  when  it  was  time  to  lunch,  I  had  to 
make  my  way  through  a  little  crowd  of  forty  spectators, 
who  did  not  seem  in  the  least  disposed  to  abdicate  the 
seats  they  had  taken  possession  of  when  the  principal 
attraction  came  upon  the  scene.  Any  properly-dis- 
posed dog  would  have  resented  this  impudence,  but 
mine  walked  pleasantly  up  to  the  forty  spectators,  and 
wagged  a  canine  welcome.  As  for  me,  being  hungry, 
I  got  into  my  hut  as  quickly  as  possible,  shut  the 
door,  and  put  up  the  little  green  curtains.  I  could 
hear  very  plainly  all  the  lively  talk  outside,  and  was 
soon  aware  that  the  crowd  was  increasing  fast.  I  had 
a  cold  grouse  or  a  partridge  to  lunch,  I  forget  which  ; 
but  I  remember  it  was  unfortunately  necessary  to  get 
it  from  the  meat  safe  outside,  and  the  innumerable 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


39 


observations  that  this  simple  action  gave  rise  to,  were 
really  wonderful  in  their  variety  and  interest.  But  to 
be  so  near  the  animal  at  feeding-time,  and  not  to  see 
it  feed,  was  a  bitter  disappointment !  Fifty  or  sixty 
of  the  spectators  (their  numbers  had  now  immensely 
increased)  attempted,  therefore,  to  obtain  a  view 
through  the  four  windows,  but  without  much  success, 
on  account  of  the  curtains.  One  man,  however,  ef- 
fected the  discovery  that,  through  a  crevice  between 
the  curtain  and  the  window-frame  a  portion  of  my 
neck  was  visible,  and  forthwith  there  were  twenty 
candidates  for  his  advantageous  position.  Having 
finished  luncheon,  I  determined  to  remove  the  curtains 
one  by  one,  long  enough  to  stimulate,  without  satisfy- 
ing, the  curiosity  of  the  spectators  outside.  As  I 
lifted  each  curtain,  I  found  the  pane  pressed  by  a 
dozen  noses ;  then  rose  a  sudden  shout,  followed  by 
an  intensely  eager  enumeration  of  whatever  peculiari- 
ty each  had  observed  ;  so  that,  although  the  time  I 
allowed  was  scarcely  long  enough  for  the  wet  col- 
lodion process,  the  combination  of  many  observers, 
with  retinae  more  highly  excited  than  any  film  of  col- 
lodion, realized  a  tolerably  characteristic  portrait. 

In  short,  the  hut  is  a  fashionable  lounge.  Girls 
come  here  to  see  their  sweethearts,  and  young  men  to 
see  the  girls.  On  Sunday  came  a  great  bevy  of 
bright-eyed  damsels  out  of  Yorkshire,  led  by  a  fine 
young  Yorkshireman,  and  escorted  by  others.  The 
leader  of  this  fair  procession  silenced  me  by  a  very 
cleverly  turned  compliment.  I  said,  66  Well,  you're  a 
lucky  fellow  to  have  so  many  fine  girls  with  you  !  " 
whereupon  he  replied,  on  behalf  of  his  companions, 
"  Why,  sir,  you  see  they've  heard  tell,  where  they 


4° 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


come  fro',  'at  there's  a  feefil  *  'ansome  young  chap 
'at's  coined  a  livin'  'ere  fur  a  bit,  an'  they  couldn't 
'old  fro'  comin'  to  see  Jim."  One  old  woman  came 
seven  miles  to  see  me  ;  so  I  asked  her  in,  and  explained 
to  her  my  cooking  apparatus  and  hammock.  She 
went  away  delighted  with  what  she  had  seen,  and 
rewarded  for  her  pilgrimage.  With  strangers  I  al- 
ways feign  total  ignorance  of  English,  answering  them 
only  in  French,  to  cut  short  the  else  inevitable  string 
of  questions.  These  questions  are  rather  imperative 
than  interrogative,  and  I  have  commonly  remarked 
that  certain  classes  of  people,  in  asking  the  most 
ordinary  question  of  any  one  whose  appearance  does 
not  altogether  command  their  respect,  have  the  air  of 
demanding  information  rather  than  requesting  it.  It 
was  by  accident  that  I  happened  to  think  of  this  ex- 
pedient of  answering  in  French.  One  afternoon  I  was 
singing  one  of  Frederic  Berat's  delightful  songs,  when 
a  gruff  Yorkshireman  presented  himself  suddenly  be- 
fore the  window  I  was  looking  through  as  I  sat  at 
work,  and,  naturally  enough,  my  thoughts  being  at 
the  moment  far  across  the  Channel,  I  told  him  in 
French  to  get  away  from  between  me  and  my  subject. 
He  stared  very  oddly,  I  thought,  and  then  I  remem- 
bered that  I  was  by  no  means  in  the  country  of 
Frederic  Berat,  but  in  the  land  of  the  Lancashire 
dialect ;  yet,  seeing  that  the  happiest  result's  followed 
from  my  mistake,  I  have  since  put  it  into  common 
practice.  It  was  fatiguing  to  have  to  explain  twenty 
times  a  day  that  I  didn't  hawk  anything,  but  was  there 

*  Feefil  is  an  old  Saxon  word  which  now  answers  to  the 
English  very.  I  do  not  remember  whether  its  meaning  has 
changed  since  the  Norman  Invasion. 


Troublesome  Visitors. 


41 


to  study  landscape,  and  that  landscape-painting  was 
not  land-surveying,  and  that  I  cooked  with  a  spirit- 
lamp,  and  that  my  Newfoundland  dog  was  young, 
and  that  the  hut  was  easily  taken  to  pieces,  and  that 
it  came  in  a  cart,  and  so  on. 

I  have  a  mad  friend  who  comes  and  sits  in  the  hut 
whilst  I  paint,  and  sings  psalms.  He  dreams  dreams, 
and  has  the  gift  of  prophecy.  He  predicted  the  erec- 
tion of  a  house  in  this  place,  and  regards  me  with  a 
peculiar  affection,  as  the  fulfiller  of  his  sayings.  He 
is  civil  and  attentive  in  his  way,  and  always  calls  for 
letters  when  he  goes  to  the  town  in  the  valley.  This 
crazed  creature  has  many  good  qualities.  He  lives  in 
a  farm-house  near  here,  where  no  woman  is  kept,  and 
does  all  the  work  of  a  farmer's  wife  and  woman- 
servant  :  they  say,  too,  that  he  does  this  unmasculine 
work  very  well  indeed,  being  exceedingly  cleanly  and 
industrious.  He  is  a  good  workman,  too,  in  his 
masculine  capacity,  and  very  strong,  physically.  His 
mental  aliment  produces  great  wildness  of  manner, 
varying  in  intensity  from  time  to  time,  but  he  is  not 
dangerous  to  anybody  who  is  kind  to  him,  as  I  am. 
The  enthusiasm  of  this  poor  fanatic  adds  to  the  wild 
character  of  the  place.  I  can  fancy  myself  on  the 
moors  above  Wuthering  Heights,  and  certainly  if 
Southern  critics  had  lived  here,  they  would  be  better 
able  to  understand  the  power  and  truth  of  what  must 
seem  to  them  a  very  strange  story  indeed. 


BOOK  II.  —  IN  SCOTLAND. 

ARGYLL. 


CHAPTER  I. 


TENTS  AND  BOATS  FOR  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

INCE  writing  the  last  chapter,  I  have  descended 


'  from  my  hermitage  on  the  hill,  but  not  without 
having  brought  my  picture  to  a  satisfactory  conclu- 
sion. I  am  none  the  worse  for  the  experiment  in  any 
way,  and  have  learned  more  about  camp  life  in  one 
month  of  actual  apprenticeship  than  if  I  had  studied  it 
in  books  of  travel  for  twelve. 

I  intend  to  go  to  the  Highlands  in  the  spring,  and 
encamp  there  several  months.  I  cannot  settle  down, 
as  Constable  did,  to  paint  subjects  of  inferior  interest, 
when  an  inexhaustible  land  of  pictures  lies  to  the 
north  at  a  distance  of  only  three  days'  journey. 

In  the  midst  of  mere  green  fields,  the  higher  artistic 
faculties  —  such,  for  instance,  as  the  sense  of  color  — 
must  get  debilitated  from  sheer  want  of  exercise.  The 
pleasant  green  of  a  good  pasture  is  all  very  sweet  in 
its  way,  especially  to  cockneys  who  live  surrounded 
by  streets  of  hideous  brick,  and  to  whose  sight  any- 
thing green  is  therefore  of  itself  a  wonderful  refresh- 


es) 


44 


Tents  and  Boats 


ment ;  but  I  like  green  best  in  the  little  lawns  that 
Nature  puts  in  the  middle  of  purple  heather,  and  I 
appreciate  the  richness  of  these  Lancashire  pastures 
considerably  less  than  the  farmer  who  calculates  their 
annual  produce,  or  the  cows  that  consume  it.  Every- 
thing seems  quainter  and  more  formal  than  ever  now 
after  my  month  amongst  the  heather,  which  I  got  as 
much  attached  to  as  any  grouse.  An  enclosed  meadow 
gives  me  an  uneasy  sensation,  as  if  it  were  a  fine 
drawing-room.    I  pine  for  the  purple  moors. 

The  shepherd  lad  who  used  to  bring  my  milk  on 
the  hill  is  permanently  installed  here  as  my  servant. 
He  is  green  and  awkward  yet,  having  been  so  recently 
caught,  but  I  hope  to  be  able  to  tame  and  educate 
him  in  time.  A  more  fashionable  domestic  would  not 
serve  my  purpose ;  so  I  must  even  accept  the  trouble 
of  teaching  this  wild  moor  bird.  In  the  course  of 
these  papers  I  shall  call  him  "  Thursday,"  that  being 
the  day  of  his  arrival  here. 

A  fine  Newfoundland  pup  I  had  intended  to  take 
with  me  died  during  my  absence,  and  the  dog  I  had 
on  the  hill  is  not  worth  his  railway  fare ;  so  he  must 
remain  in  Lancashire.  I  have  bought  a  magnificent 
bloodhound  mastiff  at  a  menagerie,  where  he  was 
exhibited  in  a  cage.  He  is  very  young,  and  of  most 
powerful  build,  besides  being  one  of  the  handsomest 
dogs  I  ever  saw. 

The  little  lawn  in  the  old-fashioned  garden  here  has 
quite  a  look  of  Chobham  or  Aldershott.  There  is  my 
hut  erected  upon  it  at  present,  and  two  tents. 

In  the  neighboring  town  they  are  busy  making  two 
life-boats  for  me.  When  they  are  finished  I  will  con- 
tinue this  chapter  with  a  description  of  the  launch, 


for  the  Highlands, 


45 


and  conclude  it  with  a  dissertation  on  Boats,  which 
may  be  broadly  divided  into  two  classes  —  Zz/*£-boats 
and  Death-hodiXs. 

The  largest  sheet  of  water  in  this  neighborhood  is  a 
canal  reservoir  at  Colne,  covering  rather  less  than  a 
hundred  acres  of  land.  I  have  been  passing  a  few 
days  very  pleasantly  in  teaching  Thursday  the  mys- 
teries of  rowing  and  steering  on  my  new  craft,  by  way 
of  preparation  for  the  Highland  lochs. 

The  launch  came  off  gayly.  Colonel  C.  very  kindly 
lent  me  his  fishing  cottage  at  the  reservoir,  and  I  in- 
vited all  my  friends  to  see  the  boats  launched,  giving 
them  afterwards  luncheon  in  the  cottage.  Then,  after 
the  launch,  my  good  friend,  the  seigneur  of  that  country, 
took  me  and  all  my  guests  up  to  the  Hall  to  spend  the 
evening,  and  I  have  been  staying  there  ever  since, 
leaving  Mr.  Thursday  at  the  cottage  to  look  after  the 
boats. 

Before  the  launch  my  crew  was  a  singularly  inex- 
perienced one,  he  never  having  even  floated  upon 
water  in  his  life  ;  but  now,  after  an  apprenticeship  of 
less  than  a  week,  he  can  row,  and  steer,  and  take  in  a 
reef  in  a  tolerably  tidy  manner  for  so  green  a  hand. 

The  reservoir  being  no  bigger  than  Rydal  Water  or 
Grasmere,  there  is  not  much  sea-room,  nor  can  we 
hope  for  an  opportunity  of  observing  how  the  new 
boats  would  behave  in  a  heavy  sea,  but  everything 
hitherto  has  been  satisfactory  enough. 

Amongst  other  voyagers,  two  young  ladies  did  my 
boat  the  honor  to  go  on  board  of  her  for  a  cruise,  and 
having  explored  the  hundred  acres  of  canal  water, 
returned  without  accident  to  port. 


46 


Tents  and  Boats 


My  boats  are  an  adaptation  of  the  double  canoe, 
constructed  in  galvanized  iron  with  water-tight  com- 
partments. Each  canoe  has  its  rudder,  and  the  two 
rudders  work  together  by  a  connecting  rod.  The 
deck  is  roomy  and  firm  in  proportion  to  the  draught 
of  water,  and  the  larger  of  the  two  double  boats  car- 
ries a  lateen-sail  with  singular  steadiness.  In  adapt- 
ing the  old  savage  idea  to  my  own  use  on  the  Northern 
lakes,  I  wish  to  have  a  craft  that  will  possess  the  fol- 
lowing qualities  in  combination  :  — 

1.  She  must  never  require  baling.  Any  water  she 
may  ship  must  discharge  itself. 

2.  She  must  be  incapable  of  being  capsized. 

3.  She  must  not  draw  more  than  nine  inches  of 
water. 

4.  She  must  have  a  large,  flat,  steady  deck,  that  I 
can  put  an  easel  on,  and  a  chair,  and  a  table  in  calm 
weather,  just  as  well  as  in  my  painting-room. 

No  common  boat  could  possibly  possess  these  quali- 
fications. It  became  therefore  necessary  to  set  one's 
inventive  faculties  to  work. 

In  the  Marine  Museum  of  the  Louvre  there  are 
some  interesting  models  of  South  Sea  canoes,  both 
double  and  with  the  balancer.  During  a  stroll  through 
that  Museum  I  found  something  which  seemed  to 
promise  all  I  required,  with  a  little  careful  adaptation. 

The  result  is  a  craft  which,  though  utterly  unortho- 
dox, the  reverse  of  nautical,  and  a  piece  of  open  rebel- 
lion against  all  the  traditions  of  old  England  on  the 
subject  of  boats  from  the  days  when  painted  Britons 
paddled  about  in  coracles,  down  to  the  last  University 
boat-race,  may,  nevertheless,  be  of  much  utility  to  me. 

I  have,  then,  two  boats,  each  of  them  double,  and  I 


for  the  Highlands, 


47 


call  them  the  "Britannia"  and  the  "Conway"  in 
honor  of  the  tubular  bridges,  to  which  they  bear  some 
resemblance,  being  tubular,  double,  and  of  iron. 

A  little  incident  which  resulted  from  some  misman- 
agement on  the  part  of  the  crew,  Mr.  Thursday,  served 
as  an  excellent  test  of  the  strength  of  the  "  Britannia." 
In  order  to  teach  Thursday  a  little  more  rapidity  in 
his  movements  than  he  had  acquired  during  his  years 
of  contemplative  pastoral  life,  I  purposely  delayed  my 
orders  as  long  as  I  dared,  and  then  thundered  them 
forth  as  if  I  had  been  commanding  a  company  in  the 
militia.  Yesterday,  the  wind  being  stronger  than 
usual,  and  squally,  I  sailed  at  the  stone  embankment 
of  the  reservoir,  intending  to  lower  sail  in  the  last 
thirty  yards,  and  make  Thursday  break  the  violence 
of  the  concussion  with  an  oar,  thinking  some  practice 
of  this  sort  might  be  useful  in  case  of  meeting  suddenly 
with  rocks.  So  I  went  at  the  stone  wall  very  coura- 
geously, and  when  within  thirty  yards  thundered  out  to 
Thursday  to  lower  sail.  Now,  the  halyard  was  fas- 
tened to  belaying  pins,  and  Thursday  had  contrived  to 
fasten  it  in  so  exceedingly  effectual  a  manner  that  it 
would  have  required  at  least  ten  minutes  of  patient 
labor  to  undo  his  knots.  We  are  now  ten  yards  off. 
Thursday  is  too  confused  to  get  the  oar  out  in  time. 
If  I  attempt  to  turn  the  boat's  head  into  the  wind,  I 
shall  damage  the  rudders  or  bulge  her  side  against  the 
stones.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  straight  at 
the  solid  embankment.  The  embankment  is  strong 
enough,  at  all  events,  and  the  shareholders  of  the 
canal  company  have  less  to  fear  than  the  owner  of  the 
"  Britannia." 

The  wind  astern  is  furious.    At  it  we  go  ! 


43 


Tents  and  Boats 


A  shock  —  enough,  as  I  thought,  to  shatter  the 
whole  boat  to  pieces  —  a  slight  rebound  —  another, 
but  less  violent  shock,  and  the  prows  rested  on  the 
stones  of  the  sloping  bank.  Two  small  grooves  were 
neatly  chiselled  in  the  stones  by  the  two  iron  toes  of 
the  double  boat,  but  the  boat  itself  was  not  injured  in 
any  way. 

My  hospitable  friends  here  would  have  me  stay 
longer,  but  I  think  that  the  rudiments  of  Thursday's 
nautical  education  being  already  theoretically  acquired, 
the  rest  will  be  best  learned  on  a  stormy  Highland 
lake. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  chapter  I  promised  to  con- 
clude it  with  a  dissertation  on  life-boats  and  death- 
boats.  An  unexpected  accession  of  material  illustra- 
tive of  that  subject  has  just  come  to  my  hands. 

A  paragraph  recounting  the  launch  of  the  "  Britan- 
nia" and  "  Conway"  life-boats  having  appeared  in  all 
the  Lancashire  papers,  an  unforeseen  consequence  has 
resulted  from  the  extraordinary  publicity  thus  given 
to  our  little  picnic.  Mr.  Wilman,  the  ironmonger,  of 
Burnley,  who  very  innocently  made  the  boats  after  my 
drawings,  has  received  an  angry  epistle  from  a  Man- 
chester agent,  demanding  royalty  upon  them  as  an 
infringement  of  some  Mr.  Richardson's  patent.  I 
regret  to  say  that  I  never  heard  either  of  Mr.  Richard- 
son or  his  patent,  having  found  the  type  of  my  boat  in 
the  Louvre ;  however,  it  seemed  my  wisest  plan  to 
put  myself  into  communication  with  Mr.  Richardson 
himself.  An  amicable  correspondence  between  us 
has  ended  by  confirming  my  views  on  the  subject  of 
life-boats  to  a  degree  altogether  unexpected,  and  it  is 


for  the  Highlands. 


with  the  greatest  pleasure  that  I  find  myself  obliged  to 
yield  any  credit  of  adaptation  or  invention  I  might 
else  have  claimed  in  favor  of  a  predecessor  in  the 
same  path,  who  has  richly  earned  whatever  fame  may 
hereafter  reward  his  exertions.  The  only  fault  I  find 
with  Mr.  Richardson  is  that  he  should  have  patented 
his  improvements.  To  restrain,  for  selfish  ends,  the 
general  adoption  of  any  invention  which,  as  in  this 
instance,  is  likely  to  preserve  human  lives,  is  to  aban- 
don at  once  the  high  ground  of  humanity.  Besides, 
although  Mr.  Richardson's  practical  energy  in  proving 
the  value  of  a  well-known  principle  deserves  the  will- 
ing recognition  I  here  accord  it,  the  adaptation  of  the 
South  Sea  model  to  English  materials  was  so  obvious 
and  easy  that  neither  Mr.  Richardson  nor  myself  have 
any  ostensible  claim  to  originality. 

My  correspondent  has  sent  me  a  most  interesting 
little  book  published  by  Pickering,  and  entitled  "The 
Cruise  of  the  "Challenger"  Life-boat,  and  Voyage 
from  Liverpool  to  London  in  1852.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  little  narratives  I  ever  read.* 

After  a  series  of  experiments,  extending  over  many 
years,  Mr.  Richardson  had  a  life-boat  constructed  for 
him  at  Manchester,  on  the  principle  I  have  adopted 
for  my  own,  but  with  several  minor  differences,  as,  for 
instance,  an  open  grating  instead  of  my  flat  deck  — 
differences  occasioned  by  the  rougher  service  to  which 
his  boat  was  destined. 

This  boat  of  Mr.  Richardson's,  the  "  Challenger," 

*  Not  for  literary  merit,  which  it  does  not  pretend  to,  but 
for  manliness,  which  is  better.  The  frankness  of  its  jealousies 
and  animosities  is  quite  pardonable  under  the  circumstances. 

4 


5° 


Tents  and  Boats 


has  challenged  all  the  life-boats  in  England  to  such  a 
stern  trial  as  no  boat-builder  ever  before  imagined. 
Amongst  other  startling  novelties  in  this  challenge 
was  a  proposition  that  the  rival  boats  should  be  torn 
through  a  tremendous  sea,  by  steamers,  and  anchored 
broadside  to  the  surf,  with  the  crew  on  the  windward 
gunwale.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  this 
challenge  has  never  once  been  accepted.  Why  these 
life-boats  are  not  adopted,  but,  on  the  contrary,  resisted 
and  ridiculed,  seems  sufficiently  intelligible. 

They  are  not  orthodox;  they  are  contrary  to  im- 
memorial usage  ;  they  have  not  the  sacred,  traditional 
form  of  boats.  Newspaper  writers  call  them  rafts. 
People  attached  to  conventionalisms  will  not  even 
look  at  them.  Such  persons,  who  take  all  on  hearsay, 
and  refer  nothing  to  nature,  never  can  believe  it  pos- 
sible that  a  form  of  boat  which  has  always  been  used 
by  the  first  maritime  nation  in  the  world  is  not  the 
best  conceivable  form.  They  do  not  know  that  our 
sailors  have,  until  quite  recently,  been  far  better  than 
our  ships,  which,  such  as  they  were,  the  French  taught 
us  how  to  build  ;  and  that  ship-building,  as  a  science, 
is  one  of  the  latest  of  discoveries.  And  now  every- 
body admits  that  the  common  life-boat  is  full  of  dan- 
ger ;  and  innumerable  accidents  have  proved  the  very 
title  a  mockery,  so  that  "  death-ho-dX "  has  been  more 
than  once  suggested  as  an  amendment :  still  the  old 
vicious  form  is  not  to  be  abandoned,  because  it  is  or- 
thodox,  it  is  conservative,  it  is  nautical,  and  respects 
the  consecrated  tradition  of  old  England. 

And  is  it  not  better  to  perish  thus  respectably  in  a 
boat  of  the  true  nautical  model,  than  to  save  one's 
miserable  life  at  the  price  of  such  a  violation  of  estab- 


for  the  Highlands. 


5* 


lishecl  custom,  as  this  revolutionary  Mr.  Richardson 
proposes?  For* what  true  Englishman  would  basely 
save  his  life  on  a  pair  of  tin  pipes,  on  a  wretched, 
uncomfortable-looking  raft?  You  would  rather  drown 
in  dignity,  reader  —  of  course  you  would. 

To  this,  Mr.  Richardson  may  answer  with  great 
truth,  that  the  main  question  is  not  whether  his  tin  tubes 
are  nautical,  nor  yet  whether  they  ought  more  justly 
to  be  classified  as  a  boat  or  as  a  raft,  according  to 
the  somewhat  arbitrary  rules  of  maritime  nomencla- 
ture ;  but  simply  whether  they  are  efficacious  instru- 
ments for  the  saving  of  shipwrecked  men. 

Another  reason  why  such  inventions  as  these,  which 
appeal  to  natural  law  (being  intended  for  use  on  a 
planet  where,  so  far  as  all  experience  seems  to  tend, 
natural  law  is  omnipotent),  cannot  be  immediately 
recognized,  is  the  inconceivable  ignorance  of  the  com- 
monest facts  of  science,  in  which  the  great  body  of 
people  who  call  themselves  educated  lie  as  yet  like 
brute  beasts.  Thus  it  has  constantly  happened,  both 
to  Mr.  Richardson  and  myself,  that  our  boats  have 
elicited  questions  indicating  a  degree  of  darkness 
which  no  intelligent  person  would  suppose  possible  in 
any  civilized  country,  and  proving  that  one  may  be 
highly  educated  in  the  conventional  sense,  and  yet 
remain  plunged  in  the  profoundest  intellectual  bar- 
barism.* 

*  Such  questions,  for  example,  as  this  :  "  How  did  jou  put 
the  air  into  the  tubes?"  proving  absolute  ignorance  of  the 
nature  of  all  fluids,  even  of  the  very  atmosphere  we  breathe. 
Other  people  often  fancy  that  the  buoyancy  of  the  tubes  must 
be  obtained  by  filling  them  with  gas,  as  if  the  difference  in 
weight  between  a  few  cubic  feet  of  air  and  a  like  quantity  of 


5* 


Tents  and  Boats 


To  have  a  just  idea  of  the  real  merits  of  the  com- 
mon open  boat,  it  is  only  necessary  to  consider  the 
following  facts. 

A  most  important  contribution  to  physical  geogra- 
phy has  been  made  by  the  agency  of  a  very  unpre- 
tending little  vessel.  This  little  vessel  has  no  quali- 
ties of  water-line  to  recommend  her  ;  she  is  singularly 
ill-adapted  for  sailing  —  does  not  sail  at  all,  in  fact, 
but  only  drifts,  for  it  is  her  business  to  drift.  She  has, 
however,  one  very  valuable  quality,  which  is,  that  so 
long  as  she  does  not  run  foul  of  anything  hard,  she  is 
particularly  safe.  True,  she  has  a  great  objection  to 
hard  things,  being  in  fact  herself  made  of  glass  —  a 
brittle  material  for  a  boat.  Her  market  value  is  two- 
pence, and  she  will  carry  her  cargo  over  three  or  four 
thousand  miles  of  ocean  waves  as  cleverly  as  many  a 
big  ship  that  has  cost  a  fine  fortune.  This  wonderful 
little  vessel  is  simply  a  corked  bottle. 

An  open  boat  that  could  bear  any  comparison  with 
a  corked  bottle  would  deserve  our  respect ;  but  open 
boats  with  shipwrecked  sailors  in  them  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  making  such  long  voyages  as  corked  bottles  do. 

Here  is  an  experiment  in  nautical  science. 

Take,  on  a  windy  day,  to  the  nearest  fish-pond,  a 
tumbler-glass  and  a  corked  beer-bottle,  both  empty. 
Let  these  be  your  vessels.  Set  them  a-floating  from 
the  windward  shore.  Your  corked  bottle  will  arrive 
quite  safe  on  the  other  side  of  the  fish-pond  (ay,  or  of 
an  Atlantic  Ocean),  but  the  tumbler-glass  will  be 
swamped  by  the  first  ripple. 

hydrogen  were  of  any  practical  importance  whatever,  in  com- 
parison with  water. 


for  the  Highlands. 


53 


The  tumbler-glass  is  the  common  open  boat.  The 
corked  beer-bottle  is  the  closed  tubular  life-boat. 

Again,  here  is  another  very  simple  experiment. 

Stand  on  one  leg  on  a  ship's  deck  in  a  breeze. 

Having  stood  as  long  as  you  can  on  one  leg,  try 
two. 

Then  see  which  way  of  standing  is  the  easier,  —  on 
one  leg,  namely,  or  on  two. 

You  have  now  the  two  great  principles  of  a  true 
life-boat.  First,  she  must  be  closed  like  the  corked 
bottle.  Second,  she  must  have  two  supports  on  the 
water  instead  of  one,  exactly  as  a  two-legged  sailor 
has  on  a  ship's  deck. 

Now,  after  having  got  well  hold  of  the  principle, 
let  us  see  how  it  answers  in  practice. 

On  Tuesday,  the  15th  of  February,  1852,  Mr.  Cui- 
ball,  the  proprietor  of  the  "Conqueror"  steamer  of 
Liverpool,  had  a  carte-blanche  to  upset,  swamp,  or  tear 
the  "  Challenger"  life-boat  to  pieces,  if  in  his  power. 
A  northerly  gale  being  then  at  its  height,  Mr.  Cuiball 
towed  the  life-boat  four  or  five  miles  head  to  wind. 
After  this,  she  was  towed  with  her  crew  on  board 
through  the  worst  seas  up  the  river. 

After  all  this,  no  baling  of  course  was  necessary ; 
nor  was  the  slightest  injury  to  the  fabric  of  the  boat 
perceptible.  No  other  life-boat  in  existence  has  un- 
dergone this  test. 

Again  :  eighty  persons  leaped  at  once  on  one  gun- 
wale of  the  "  Challenger"  without  upsetting  her.  No 
other  life-boat  in  existence  has  undergone  this  test. 

These  two  trials  prove  the  validity  of  the  principles 
laid  down  above.  The  first  trial,  by  towing,  proves 
the  value  of  the  closed  tube  or  corked  bottle  principle. 


54 


Tents  and  Boats 


The  second  trial,  by  fourscore  persons  leaping  together 
on  one  gunwale,  proves  the  stability  gained  by  the 
double  tube  or  two-legged  principle. 

As  for  my  boat,  she  was  not  built  for  hard  service 
on  the  sea-coast,  but  merely  to  be  safer  and  steadier  on 
fresh  water  than  the  common  open  boat.  Let  us  com- 
pare her  in  these  two  respects  with  the  common  open 
boat. 

First,  then,  let  us  examine  such  a  familiar  specimen 
of  the  common  model  as  we  may  find  at  any  watering- 
place  on  the  coast. 

She  reminds  one,  rather,  of  half  a  walnut-shell. 
She  is  probably  half  full  of  water,  if  it  has  rained  all 
night ;  for  she  serves  not  only  to  float  on  water  like  a 
ship,  but  to  hold  it  like  a  cistern.  There  is  a  little 
rusty  iron  can  in  the  stern,  with  the  handle  broken  off. 
This  is  the  instrument  with  which  she  is  to  be  emp- 
tied ;  and  as  the  can  holds  a  quart  at  most,  you  may 
calculate  how  long  it  will  take  to  empty  a  hundred 
gallons,  which  may  be  thrown  into  her  at  any  moment 
in  a  rough  sea  ;  and  this  may  lead  us  to  reflect  further, 
whether,  in  every  case,  the  little  tin  can  would  quite 
clear  out  the  hundred  gallons  before  another  wave 
splashed  another  hundred  into  the  cistern ;  so  that  the 
question  of  Life  and  Death  reduces  itself  into  a  contest 
between  one  little  tin  can,  the  Protector  of  Life,  against 
an  innumerable  army  of  breakers,  the  Menacers  of 
Death  ;  for,  if  the  water  comes  in  faster  than  the  tin 
can  empties  it  out  again,  you  are  lost.  But  there  are 
heavy  iron  wreights  in  her,  you  see,  as  wTell  as  the  tin 
can.  These  wreights  constitute,  to  any  one  in  the 
habit  of  reflection,  a  still  more  damaging  confession 
of  dangerous  construction.     Without  them,  the  boat 


for  the  Highlands.  55 

could  not  carry  sail  ten  minutes  in  a  breeze,  and  with 
them,  if  once  the  boat  fall  on  her  side  and  the  weights 
tumble  to  leeward,  nothing  can  save  you;  whilst,  in 
case  of  a  big  wave  dropping  into  the  boat  with  that 
clumsiness  peculiar  to  plethoric  masses  of  water,  down 
she  goes  at  once  to  the  bottom,  like  a  dead  sailor  with 
cannon-balls  to  his  feet.  So  the  tin  can  is  a  confession 
that  water  is  expected  to  enter,  and  the  ballast  is  a 
confession  of  instability. 

My  own  double  iron  tubular  boat,  the  "  Britannia," 
offers  a  striking  contrast  to  this. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  neither  tin  can  nor  ballast 
to  be  seen  about  her,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that, 
being  closed  against  the  ingress  of  water,  she  never 
requires  baling ;  and  again,  that  being  wonderfully 
steady  under  canvas,  by  reason  of  her  double  construc- 
tion, she  is  wholly  independent  of  ballast. 

Nay,  more.  If  you  choose  to  send  a  bullet  through 
one  of  her  tubes  under  the  water-line,  so  long  as  the 
bullet  does  not  pass  through  her  from  end  to  end,  still 
she  shall  float  lightly  ;  for  she  is  divided  internally 
into  little  water-tight  chambers,  each  of  which  has  a 
separate  life  and  buoyancy. 

With  regard  to  speed,  though  not  built  for  speed  in 
any  way,  but  for  stability,  that  I  may  draw  from  na- 
ture on  her  deck,  she  is  yet  not  inferior  to  ordinary 
boats  of  her  own  length,  and  sails  well  to  the  wind, 
owing  to  her  two  keels,  which  give  a  double  hold  on 
the  water. 

As  to  Mr.  Richardson's  object,  the  saving  of  life 
from  shipwreck,  it  is  enough  to  say,  in  order  to  prove 
that  the  subject  deserves  some  attention,  that  the  aver- 
age annual  catalogue  of  wrecks  on  the  coast  of  Britain 
alone  exceeds  a  thousand. 


56  Tents  and  Boats  for  the  Highlands. 


And  as  for  my  own  object,  which  is  to  render  boat- 
ing a  safe  recreation,  instead  of  one  of  the  deadliest 
ever  invented,  I  believe  all  Europe  may  be  challenged 
to  name  any  lake  or  river  of  importance  where  fatal 
accidents  have  not  occurred,  in  consequence  wholly  of 
the  unsafe  construction  of  the  common  open  boat. 

Good  people  fancy  that  the  loss  of  life  by  drowning 
is  an  inscrutable  dispensation  of  Providence.  When 
it  happens  on  Sunday,  it  is  for  Sabbath-breaking ; 
when,  however,  it  happens  on  Tuesday  or  Wednes- 
day, what  then?  Are  we  to  be  told  that  it  is  for 
Tuesday-breaking  or  Wednesday-breaking? 

It  is  very  convenient  to  lay  the  blame  of  our  own 
imbecility  on  Providence  ;  yet,  as  it  seems  to  me,  it 
wrere  not  only  more  prudent,  but  a  great  deal  more 
pious,  to  pay  some  attention  to  those  laws  of  nature 
under  which  Providence  has  placed  us. 

Lastly.  If  any  reader  is  disposed  to  be  angry  with 
me  for  getting  prosy  and  argumentative  in  this  chapter, 
let  him  reflect  a  little  on  the  condition  of  certain 
widows  and  orphans,  who  need  never  have  put  on 
mourning,  if  the  principles  here  laid  down  had  been 
generally  applied  to  practice  for  the  last  half-century. 
There  have  been  tragedies  enough  of  the  unproductive 
sort.  If  there  is  a  superabundance  of  manly  life  in 
England,  there  may  be  bloody  wars  ere  long  that  will 
quench  it  in  salt  water,  under  clouds  of  cannon-smoke  ; 
and  it  were  wiser  to  reserve  our  victims  for  this  nobler 
sacrifice,  than  to  let  them  slip  unprofitably  out  of  the 
world  by  the  upsetting  of  treacherous  toy-boats  in 
ditches  and  fish-ponds. 


57 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  AUTHOR  ARRIVES  AT  LOCH  AWE. 

A FEW  nights  since,  there  rested  on  the  highest 
point  of  the  Highland  road  in  Glenara,  a  sin- 
gular group.  It  was  past  midnight.  Far  down  in  the 
valley  lay  the  expanse  of  Loch  Awe,  gray  and  mys- 
terious in  the  dim  twilight.  A  vast  range  of  moun- 
tains rose  beyond,  whose  outlines  and  summits  were 
confounded  with  fantastic  cloud  of  exactly  the  same 
color  and  character.  There  was  just  enough  light  in 
the  sky  to  show  the  group  of  travellers  as  they  halted. 
Three  men,  a  horse  and  cart,  a  great  tawny  blood- 
hound, and  a  shepherd's  dog,  were  easily  made  out  by 
two  graziers  who  passed  that  way,  but  a  strange  ma- 
chine on  two  wheels  in  the  rear  baffled  them  alto- 
gether. They  passed  on,  however,  without  arriving 
at  any  satisfactory  conclusion. 

The  three  men,  the  horse  and  cart,  the  great  blood- 
hound, and  the  shepherd's  dog,  remained  where  they 
were  ;  the  strange  machine  in  the  rear  stood  by  itself. 
It  had  no  horse  nor  shafts,  yet  it  went  on  wheels,  and 
the  difficulty  was,  how  to  get  this  queer  machine 
down  the  hill,  for  it  was  huge  and  unmanageable. 

"Will  she  no  come  doon  the  brae?"  said  one  of 
the  men  with  a  pure  Highland  accent. 

"  Who'll  come  fast  enoo  ;  that's  all  as  I'm  feared 
on,"  answered  another  in  unmistakable  Yorkshire. 


58 


The  Author  arrives  at  Loch  Awe. 


"  Hold  on,  Campbell,  and  let  us  think  the  matter 
over  a  little,"  said  a  third  voice  in  plain  English. 
44  I  remember  that  the  road  is  steep  from  here  to 
Cladich." 

"  The  warst  brae  from  Inverara  to  Lochow,  sir." 

"  Then  we  cannot  'old  her  fro'  runnin'  over  us,  for 
who's  th'  'eaviest  consarn  as  ever  I  tackled  sin'  I  'ere 
wick." 

44  Hold  your  tongue,  and  do  as  you're  told,  and 
we'll  get  her  down  safely.    Get  the  plank  out." 

The  Yorkshireman  found  a  loose  plank  in  the 
strange  machine. 

44  Tie  one  end  of  the  plank  to  the  axle,  about  a  foot 
from  the  ground.  That'll  do.  Now  go  in  front  and 
guide  her,  and  I'll  keep  the  plank  down  for  a  drag." 

Here  the  speaker  took  his  stand  on  the  plank,  and 
held  to  the  strange  machine,  which  started  down  the 
hill,  and  went  tolerably  well  till  it  came  to  a  short 
level. 

"  Halt !  this  is  all  very  well  here,  but  when  we 
come  to  the  real  hill,  it  won't  answer.  Campbell, 
will  the  mare  hold  back  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sir,  the  beast  '11  do  that." 

44  Then  suppose  we  tie  her  behind  the  machine  in- 
stead of  me,  and  then  I  can  help  my  man  to  guide  it 
in  front.    One  man  isn't  enough  there." 

"  The  beast  would  be  the  better  o'  the  cayrt  behind 
her.  Het  would  keep  her  back  if  the  wheels  were 
dragged." 

Hereupon  horse  and  cart  were  fastened  to  the  rear 
of  the  strange  machine. 

44  And  how  will  you  drag  the  wheels,  Campbell?" 
Before  the  Highlander  could  answer  this  question, 


The  Author  arrives  at  Loch  Awe, 


59 


the  Yorkshireman,  with  great  alacrity,  seized  the 
loose  plank  and  passed  it  through  the  wheels  between 
the  spokes.  "  There,  sir,"  said  he,  confidently,  "  that's 
the  way  we  drag  wheels  up  i'  Widdup." 

Off  started  the  whole  caravan. 

"  What  are  you  stopping  for  now?" 

"  Marecy  upon  us  !    Guid  guide  us  !  " 

Here  the  Englishman,  finding  the  body  of  the  cart 
on  the  ground,  with  the  wheels  and  axle  considerably 
in  the  rear,  the  horse  standing  stock  still,  and  the 
Highlander  lost  in  wonder,  burst  incontinently  into 
peals  of  laughter. 

The  Yorkshireman  stared  through  the  dim  twilight, 
and,  having  felt  the  cart,  satisfied  himself  that  it  was 
without  wheels.    Then  he  scratched  his  head. 

The  Highlander  became  very  grave,  and  solemnly 
said,  "  I  doot  we'll  no  get  harne  the  mcht."  And,  in 
truth,  there  seemed  slight  hopes  of  getting  there. 

At  last,  after  careful  examination  by  touch  (it  was 
impossible  to  see),  it  turned  out  that  since  the  High- 
land wright  who  built  the  cart  had  omitted  to  put  nuts 
to  his  bolts,  the  Yorkshire  expedient  for  dragging  the 
wheels  had  done  it  more  effectually  than  was  desirable, 
by  lifting  the  body  off  them  altogether  and  dropping  it 
down  in  the  road. 

After  a  long  delay  the  cart  was  lifted  upon  the  axle 
and  reladen ;  the  mare  replaced  in  the  shafts,  the 
strange  machine  tied  in  front,  the  cartwheels  locked 
with  ropes,  and  the  whole  descended  the  hill. 

"  Hae  ye  lost  something,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  I  don't  see  my  dog,"  —  the  great  bloodhound 
was  missing.  "  We  must  not  go  on  till  he  is  found  ; 
he  will  worry  every  sheep  on  the  hill." 


6o 


The  Author  arrives  at  Loch  Awe. 


Here  the  speaker  took  a  dogwhip  from  his  pocket, 
and,  applying  the  end  of  it  to  his  mouth,  whistled  for 
ten  minutes  without  ceasing. 

Then  all  listened  silently.  A  faint,  distant  howl 
came  from  the  moors. 

Again  the  shrill  whistle  sounded  for  some  minutes. 
A  still  pause  succeeded,  and  a  great  spectre-like  blood- 
hound as  large  as  a  wolf  cantered  up. 

At  the  inn,  the  innkeeper  came  out  with  a  candle 
in  his  hand  to  welcome  his  expected  guest.  The  light 
fell  on  the  strange  machine.  It  seemed  like  four  great 
black  tubes  of  iron  —  a  large  pair  with  a  lesser  pair 
upon  them. 

"  What  are  these,  sir?" 

"  Only  my  boats." 

"  Well,  sir,  if  these  are  boats,  the  like  was  never 
seen  on  Lochow.,, 

The  next  day  the  baggage-wagon  came  on  from 
Inveraray,  where  we  had  left  it,  and  after  having  staid 
a  day  or  two  at  the  inn,  that  I  might  choose  a  good  site 
for  the  encampment,  I  decided,  finally,  to  establish  it 
on  a  large  green  island  in  the  middle  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque part  of  Loch  Awe. 

Astronomers  teach  us  that  if  we  could  visit  a  heavier 
globe  than  ours,  we  should  find  everything  increased 
in  weight,  and  that  the  strength  which  suffices  for  all 
ordinary  work  on  the  planet  Tellus,  would  be  prostra- 
tion and  debility  on  Jupiter. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  Jupiter  for  an  example 
of  this.  A  load  for  one  horse  in  England  is  more  than 
enough  for  two  in  the  Highlands.  When  I  left  home, 
my  light  wagon,  full  of  camp  materials,  the  whole 
weighing  less  than  a  laden  cart,  was  bravely  taken  to 


The  Author  arrives  at  Loch  Awe.  61 


the  station  by  one  mare  ;  little,  old,  and  out  of  condi- 
tion. She  had  a  terrible  hill  to  descend,  but  did  it 
quite  coolly,  without  dragging  a  wheel,  the  driver 
walking  quietly  by  her  side.  To  take  the  same  wag- 
on from  Cladich  to  Innistrynich,  a  shorter  distance, 
two  horses,  six  men,  and  two  boys  were  found  neces- 
sary, with  ropes  to  hold  back,  and  a  shoe  to  lock  the 
wheel. 

For  the  first  few  hundred  yards  all  went  well ;  but 
when  we  came  to  a  little  descent,  the  shaft  horse 
stopped,  and,  on  being  remonstrated  with,  lay  down 
very  quietly  in  the  ditch  on  the  road-side,  twisting  the 
iron-plated  shafts  out  of  shape. 

"  Tonald,  Tonald,  what  gars  the  beast  do  the  like 
o'  that?" 

But  Tonald  kicked  the  beast. 

Then  the  beast  rose  up  and  groaned,  but  refused  to 
labor.  And  there  was  a  wonderful  clamor  in  Gaelic. 
As  for  me,  notwithstanding  the  injury  to  my  shafts,  I 
laughed  till  I  was  faint.  At  last,  as  soon  as  I  could 
speak,  I  suggested  that  the  leader  be  tried  in  the  shafts. 
But  it  fell  out  that  this  beast  was  no  better  than  the 
other ;  so,  since  the  horses  could  not  draw  the  wagon, 
I  proposed  to  draw  it  myself. 

Just  then  came  a  little  one-eyed  man,  who  shrieked 
with  laughter  at  my  Highlanders  and  their  steeds,  and 
swore  roundly  that  a  common  railway  porter  would 
have  carried  the  whole  on  his  back.  He  could  speak 
Gaelic,  too,  and  so  ridiculed  the  Celts  in  their  own 
euphonious  tongue  that  at  last  they  sent  the  horses 
back,  and  took  the  wagon  down  to  the  lake  without 
them.    Still  the  horses  figured  handsomely  in  the  bill. 


62 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  AUTHOR  ENCAMPS  ON  AN  UNINHABITED  ISLAND. 

'  I  ^HIS  island  of  Inishail,  where  I  have  pitched  my 
tents,  is  a  long,  green  pasture  in  the  middle  of 
Loch  Awe,  of  a  very  tame  and  quiet  aspect,  broken 
only  by  one  rocky  eminence,  crowned  with  a  few 
straggling  firs.  There  is  a  miserable  patch  of  plan- 
tation on  the  eastern  side  which  adds  nothing  to  its 
beauty,  and  a  ruin  at  the  other  end  surrounded  by 
tombs  ;  but  the  ruin  has  no  architectural  value.  The 
shore  of  the  island  curves  beautifully  into  bays.  Be- 
tween the  ruin  and  the  plantation  stand  my  tents.  The 
island  is  all  one  blue  field  of  flowers,  as  if  the  sky  had 
fallen  ;  it  is  always  so  in  spring ;  in  summer  it  is  cov- 
ered with  green  fern  ;  and  in  autumn,  when  the  fern 
dies,  it  reddens  the  whole  island. 

This  bit  of  pasture  land  would  be  nothing  anywhere 
else,  but  here  it  is  remarkable  for  its  admirable  posi- 
tion. It  is  placed  in  the  very  centre  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque part  of  Loch  Awe.  From  it  you  can  see 
Kilchurn  Castle,  and  Ben  Cruachan,  and  Ben  Anea, 
and  the  Pass  of  Awe.  What  Inishail  itself  lacks  of 
picturesque  beauty  is  compensated  by  the  close  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Black  Islands,  as  exquisite  a  pair  of 
wooded  isles  as  the  most  fastidious  artist  could  desire. 
In  short,  this  spot  of  green  earth  is  the  best  head- 
quarters I  could  have  chosen.    It  has  been  inhabited 


The  Author  encamps  on  an  uninhabited  Island.  63 

before,  long  ago,  by  a  convent  of  Cistercian  nuns. 
They  were  turned  out  at  the  Reformation,  and  their 
poor  little  chapel  has  been  left  for  the  winds  to  sing  in 
ever  since.  Not  many  stones  are  left  of  it  now,  and 
its  foundations  lie  low  amongst  the  moss-covered  tombs 
of  the  old  chieftains.  But  the  people  bring  their  dead 
here  yet,  and  lay  them  under  the  shadow  of  their 
broken  walls,  so  that  the  island  is  a  land  of  death,  of 
utter  repose  and  peace.  Was  it  not  well  in  barbarous 
mountaineers  to  bury  their  dead  in  lonely  isles,  where 
the  foot  of  the  marauder  trampled  not  the  grass  on  the 
grave,  and  where  the  living  came  not,  save  in  sorrow, 
and  reverently  ?  The  main  land  was  for  the  living  to 
fight  upon,  to  hunt  upon,  and  to  dwell  upon  ;  but 
this  green  isle  was  the  Silent  Land,  the  Island  of  the 
Blest.  Hither  the  chieftains  came,  generation  after 
generation,  borne  solemnly  across  the  waters  from 
their  castled  isles  :  hither  they  came  to  this  defence- 
less one,  where  they  still  sleep  securely,  when  their 
strongholds  are  roofless  ruins ;  their  claymores  dis- 
solved in  rust ;  their  broad  lands,  that  they  fought  for 
all  their  lives,  sold  and  resold  ;  and  their  descendants 
sent  into  exile  to  make  a  desert  for  English  grouse- 
shooters. 

On  this  island,  then,  inhabited  by  the  dead,  stands 
at  length  my  little  hut,  cosy  as  ever.  Thursday's  hut 
has  a  good  wooden  floor,  and  wooden  walls  roofed 
over  by  a  pyramidal  tent,  strong  and  impervious,  and 
heated  by  a  capital  little  cooking  stove  in  the  middle, 
whose  pipe  serves  for  a  tent  pole.  An  old  Crimean 
tent  stands  beyond  Thursday's  white  pyramid,  value- 
less, indeed,  for  shelter,  but  useful  as  a  receptacle  for 


64  The  Author  encamps  on  an  uninhabited  Island. 

fuel,  and  as  a  sort  of  kitchen,  being  provided  with  a 
grate  and  chimney. 

And  there,  in  the  beautiful  bay,  the  "  Britannia " 
rides  at  anchor,  and  the  "  Conway  "  is  drawn  up  on 
the  sandy  shore  of  the  island. 

And  down  by  that  sandy  shore,  still  and  cold  in  his 
grave,  lies  my  poor  hound.  An  uncontrollable  thirst 
for  blood,  making  him  utterly  ungovernable  where 
sheep  were  to  be  got  at,  has  led  to  this  fatal  but  fore- 
seen result.  I  try  to  console  myself  for  having  passed 
sentence  upon  him  by  observing  how  happily  the  little 
flock  on  the  island  gathers  round  the  camp,  and  how 
the  tender  lambs  graze  peacefully  even  on  the  shore 
itself,  down  by  Lion's  grave. 


65 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EDUCATIONAL. 

AMONGST  other  labors  that  I  have  proposed  to 
myself  during  my  Crusoe  life  on  the  island  is  one 
worthy  of  Robinson  Crusoe  himself  —  namely,  to  teach 
Thursday  pure  English.  Hitherto  he  has  spoken  a 
rich  mixture  of  the  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire  dialects, 
an  uncouth  and  barbarous  patois,  which,  though  inter- 
esting in  a  philological  point  of  view,  preserving,  as  it 
undoubtedly  does,  many  words  of  Saxon  or  Danish 
origin  long  since  lost  to  refined  society,  does  not  pos- 
sess equivalents  for  those  respectful  forms  of  expression 
commonly  used  by  servants  in  speaking  to  their  mas- 
ters. I  therefore  told  Thursday  very  decidedly  that  he 
must  do  one  of  two  things  —  either  learn  English  or 
leave  me  ;  and  he  preferred  learning  English.  Now, 
this  Thursday  was  a  raw  shepherd  lad  from  the  moors, 
ignorant  of  everything  but  pastoral  life  ;  and  pastoral 
life  is  not  quite  so  sentimental  on  the  Yorkshire  moors 
as  it  is  in  the  foolish  poems  of  cockney  writers  of  the 
last  century.  Thursday  had,  however,  a  strong  desire 
to  improve  himself,  and,  as  I  was  willing  to  help  him, 
soon  fell  into  the  position  of  a  private  pupil  rather  than 
a  domestic  servant ;  and,  indeed,  many  private  pupils 
pay  dearly  for  instruction  of  a  much  less  profitable 
nature.  But  old  habits  are  not  easily  rooted  out,  and 
the  gradual  replacing  of  words  peculiar  to  a  barbarous 
5 


66 


Educational. 


patois  by  words  belonging  to  the  accepted  language 
of  all  England  was  a  very  slow  and  very  tedious  busi- 
ness, and  one  which  cost  me  an  infinity  of  trouble,  and 
him  innumerable  blows. 

Yes,  I  thrashed  him  daily,  and  that  severely,  for 
weeks  together ;  yet  he  was  a  voluntary  victim. 
There  was  one  unlucky  word  of  his,  which  on  the 
Yorkshire  hills  stands  for  our  words  only,  but,  and 
except;  I  mean  the  word  naut,  which  is  much  in 
vogue  in  that  country,  where  the  people  are  of  so 
cautious  a  disposition  that  they  can  never  state  any- 
thing roundly,  but  must  always  qualify  every  state- 
ment with  a  drawback  or  an  exception.  Against  this 
detestable  word  naut  my  first  efforts  were  vigorously 
directed  ;  so  in  exchange  for  it  I  gave  Thursday  the 
three  words,  only,  but,  and  except  —  an  excellent  bar- 
gain for  Thursday,  since,  in  place  of  his  single  coin, 
whose  origin  was  obscure  and  circulation  limited,  he 
received  three  pieces  of  royal  English,  current  wher- 
ever that  language  is  spoken  on  earth.  But  my  un- 
happy pupil,  notwithstanding  the  most  hearty  and 
laudable  desire  to  get  rid  of  his  word,  and  the  most 
perfect  willingness  to  replace  it  with  the  three  I  had 
given  him,  found  that  the  old  word  stuck  to  him  like 
a  burr,  whilst  the  new  ones  were  never  at  hand  when 
wanted,  but  required  to  be  sought  for,  and,  when 
found,  inserted  into  the  phrase  with  the  utmost  neat- 
ness and  care,  like  a  patch  in  a  garment.  One  day, 
therefore,  when  the  obnoxious  word  had  occurred  a 
dozen  times  in  as  many  minutes,  the  following  con- 
versation took  place  between  myself  and  my  poor 
pupil :  — 

The  Author.  —  There  seems  to  be  only  one  way 


Educational. 


67 


left  for  you,  Thursday ;  and  that  is,  that  you  consent 
to  be  thrashed  every  time  you  use  that  word. 

Thursday.  —  Well,  sir,  I'm  sure  I'd  be  rid  of  it  fast 
enough  if  I  could  naut  cob  it  away  like  a  stoan. 

The  Author.  —  There,  naut  again  ! 

Thursday.  —  Confound  it !  eah,*  its  alius  f  coinin' 
when  it  isn't  wanted.  —  Dang  thee  (apostrophizing  the 
word  itself),  dang  thee,  thou's  noan  wanted  ;  go  thee 
back  to  Widdup,  and  dunnot  thee  come  back  again 
naut  when  they  send  for  thee. 

The  Author.  —  There,  Thursday,  naut  again. 

Thursday.  —  Bless  me,  sir,  that  word  's  alius  corn- 
in'  !  I  think  it  raun  %  be  the  devil  hissel  as  sends  it ;  if 
I  could  naut  be  one  day  bout  §  sayin'  it  I  s'd  be  con- 
tenter  by  th'auve.  || 

The  Author.  —  Naut  again,  Thursday. 

Thursday.  —  Well,  sir,  you  may  lick  me,  then,  for 
I  see  I's  never  get  no  larnin'  naut  it's  licked  into  me, 
same  as  a  whelp. 

In  short,  the  poor  fellow  came  to  me  that  evening, 
snd  said  that  he  had  taken  the  resolution  to  bear 
patiently  any  personal  chastisement  I  might  think 
proper  to  inflict,  if  only  I  could  make  him  learn  Eng- 
lish. He  said  he  believed  seriously  that  it  was  the 
only  way  he  should  ever  learn,  and  that  he  had  de- 
termined to  submit  to  it  as  a  necessity.  The  day  after, 
accordingly,  this  system  of  instruction  was  put  into 
practice  ;  and  I  am  really  afraid  that,  when  Thursday 

*  Corruption  oi  yea,  used  constantly  in  Lancashire  for  yes. 
f  Always.  J  Must. 

§  Abbreviation  of  beout  for  w//^out.    The  word  deout,  un- 
abridged, is  common  in  Yorkshire. 
||  More  content  by  half. 


68 


Educational. 


went  to  his  hammock  at  night,  that  heroic  martyr  to 
learning  scarcely  found  a  bone  that  was  not  too  sore  to 
rest  upon,  so  often  had  he  been  punished  during  the 
day.  The  next  day  these  inflictions  were,  however,  a 
little  less  frequent,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  a  very  re- 
markable diminution  was  observable.  Gradually  the 
obnoxious  word  fell  into  disuse  ;  and  although,  after  the 
commencement  of  this  excellent  course  of  discipline, 
Thursday  got  into  a  rebellious  habit  of  running  away 
from  correction,  he  steeled  himself  into  fortitude  when 
I  pointed  out  how  this  resistance  to  correction  would 
defeat  his  own  ends.  The  truth  is,  that  Thursday  ran 
much  better  than  I  did  ;  so  I  could  never  come  up  with 
him  ;  wherefore  I  preached  him  a  little  sermon,  and 
made  an  appeal  to  his  feelings  of  honor  and  duty,  re- 
buking him  in  a  touching  manner  for  his  want  of  grat- 
itude in  thus  refusing  what  was  intended  solely  for  his 
benefit.  But  on  board  the  boat  escape  was  impossible, 
and  it  was  there  that  the  most  wholesome  lessons  were 
given  and  received — given,  not  without  sorrow,  for  it 
is  at  all  times  a  sad  necessity  to  inflict  chastisement ; 
all  schoolmasters  are  agreed  upon  that —  and  received, 
not  without  occasional  murmurs  of  impatience,  such  as 
idle  threatenings  on  Thursday's  part  to  throw  himself 
into  the  water,  threatenings  which,  as  I  very  well 
knew,  were  in  no  danger  of  being  fulfilled.  Then  I, 
on  my  part,  would  threaten  to  abandon  my  pupil  to 
his  ancient  ignorance  of  polite  letters,  rather  than  re- 
lax for  an  instant  the  severity  of  discipline.  And  I  am 
happy  to  be  able  to  add,  to  Thursday's  immortal  honor, 
that  he  refused  not  the  rod,  but  gave  his  back  to  the 
smiter ! 

This  system  of  punishment  was  never  abandoned, 


Educational. 


69 


nor  even  relaxed,*  but  has  already  become  practically 
obsolete,  for  the  reason  that  the  word  against  which  it 
was  directed  has  been,  by  its  means,  totally  banished 
from  Thursday's  vocabulary.  O,  all  little  school-boys 
who  read  this,  think  how  happily  you  are  situated,  and 
what  blessings  you  enjoy  !  you,  my  dear  and  fortunate 
young  friends,  who  have  had  the  inestimable  privilege 
of  being  thrashed  from  your  earliest  years  !  this  poor 
boy,  Thursday,  had  not  your  advantages. 

*  The  system  remained  in  force  for  several  years  after  the 
above  was  written.  It  was  not  confined  long  to  the  word  newt, 
but  removed  successively  almost  all  Thursday's  habitual  faults 
in  speaking. 


7o 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  ISLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 

IS  this  a  place  of  toil  or  a  haven  of  rest?  What 
living  thing  toils  here?  Why  should  I  fret  myself, 
and  paint  under  the  intolerable  glare  of  this  dazzling, 
cloudless  noon?  The  sheep  lie  panting  round  my 
tents.  The  white  gulls  rest  on  the  rocks.  My  boat 
sleeps  motionless* on  the  still  water;  she  floats  on  a 
vast  liquid  mirror,  so  perfect  everywhere,  that  the  eye 
can  find  no  flaw.  The  splendid  lake,  from  shore  to 
shore,  lies  hushed  in  a  long,  deep' trance  of  calm,  that 
has  lasted  I  know  not  how  many  burning  days.  I 
count  the  days  no  more.  They  have  been  still,  and 
burning,  and  blue  like  to-day,  now  for  I  know  not 
how  long.  Why  should  I  count  the  days?  Some- 
body else  will  count  them,  far  away  in  the  stifling 
towns. 

I  will  float  on  the  lake  like  the  boat,  I  will  rest  on 
the  shore  like  this  little  flock,  I  will  sit  on  the  dark 
rocks  in  the  lake  like  those  indolent  fowls  of  the  sea  ; 
but  one  thing  I  will  not  do  —  I  will  not  blind  my  eyes 
with  staring  at  that  sapphire-flaming  sky,  nor  weary 
my  soul  with  mixing  dull  imitations  of  it  from  the 
costly  dust  of  the  lapis  lazuli.  All  is  rest  here.  The 
dead  rest  in  their  cool,  dark  graves,  out  of  the  heat 
and  glare,  there  not  far  from  my  tents,  round  the  little 
ruined  church.    The  countless  streams  of  Cruachan 


The  Isle  of  Indolence. 


71 


have  ceased  to  flow ;  they  too  will  have  their  week  of 
rest,  and  they  lie  in  the  cold  granite  heart  of  the  hills, 
safe  from  the  fierce  god  who  would  change  them  all 
into  pale  white  clouds  if  he  could  find  them. 

I  begin  to  have  vague  impressions  of  unreality. 
This  life  does  not  seem  quite  real.  I  am  dreaming, 
and  expect  to  be  awakened  some  ordinary  common- 
place morning  as  usual.  But  for  the  present  let  me 
at  least  enjoy  my  dream.  I  will  eat  lotos.  Alas,  the 
lotos  blooms  not  here  !  I  will  smoke  a  yet  more  fra- 
grant plant,  and  envy  those  lotos-eating  Greeks  no 
more.  I  will  sit  with  my  pipe  in  the  tent's  cool 
shadow. 

The  tent,  I  perceive,  suffers  a  degree  of  lassitude, 
and  is  sensible  of  this  Indian  heat.  It  hangs  in  care- 
less curves,  and  has  lost  its  tightness  and  trim.  Well, 
we  are  none  of  us  very  much  on  the  stretch  just  at 
present,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  the  tent  should  not 
participate  in  the  general  relaxation. 

I  have  only  bathed  eight  times  to-day.  I  live  like 
a  seal,  in  the  water  and  out.  But  I  have  an  advantage 
over  the  seal.  I  found  out  this  morning  that  I  could 
smoke  very  comfortably  in  the  water,  whereas  the 
unfortunate  seals  cannot  smoke. 

It  is  pleasant  to  lie  on  one's  back  in  the  bay, 
smoking  cigars.  The  combination  of  sensations  is 
curious  and  interesting.  And  there  is  a  certain  feeling 
of  triumph  in  being  able  to  keep  that  little  spark  of 
ethereal  fire  alive  above  the  abyss  of  waters.  I  fancy 
then  that  the  cigar  has  a  finer  flavor  than  on  land  —  at 
least,  I  like  it  better ;  probably,  I  unconsciously  sym- 
pathize with  the  cigar,  when  my  life,  like  its  little  fire, 
is  kept  burning  on  a  fearful  deep,  which  could  so 
easily  extinguish  both. 


72 


The  Isle  of  Indolence. 


Thursday  tells  me  that  the  candles  melt  in  the  can- 
dlesticks, and  fall  down  when  the  sun  puts  forth  his 
strength  in  the  morning.  It  is  an  act  of  becoming 
humility  on  the  part  of  the  candles.  But  what  is 
more  distressing  is,  that  Thursday  and  I  are  in  a  fair 
wray  for  being  prostrate  also  before  long,  and  I  don't 
see  that  we  owe  the  sun  any  such  homage. 

This  I  take  to  be  due  only  to  our  diet.  I  lived  very 
much  better  on  the  Lancashire  moors.  Now,  animal 
food  becomes  tainted  in  a  day,  and  the  whole  country 
cannot  supply  vegetables.  Neither  beef  nor  mutton 
is  to  be  had  all  round  these  sixty  miles  of  shore.  It 
is  true  I  might  purchase  lean  kine  and  bony  sheep,  if 
I  were  willing  to  take  them  alive  ;  but  after  the  first 
joint  what  could  we  do  with  them  but  salt  them  ?  and 
who  but  a  Highlander  or  a  sailor  can  live  long  on  salt 
food  without  suffering  from  it?  I  have  sent  for  beef 
to  Inveraray  ;  but  the  Lowland  poet  gave  so  damaging 
a  report  of  that  city  that  I  never  expected  to  find  good 
flesh  of  oxen  there,  nor  have  I  found  it.  If  I  send  to 
Glasgow,  what  then  ?  the  beef  will  be  rotten  before  it 
arrives,  this  hot  weather.  There  is  nothing  left  for  it 
but  patience  —  and  a  little  bread  and  butter. 

An  Englishman  out  here,  accustomed  to  good  keep, 
is  like  a  corn-fed  hunter  in  a  field  of  thistles.  Thurs- 
day is  getting  weak,  and  complains,  in  his  way,  of 
exhaustion.  "  I  feel  quite  done,  somehow,  sir,"  he 
says.  And  no  wonder,  for  the  poor  fellow  has  not 
had  a  dinner  this  month  past.  Once,  by  some  mirac- 
ulous good  fortune,  we  had  gathered  together  wTith 
infinite  pains  the  materials  of  a  substantial  repast. 
Smiles  of  contentment  shed  their  lustre  on  Thursday's 
countenance  on  this  auspicious  occasion.    He  strutted 


The  Isle  of  Indolence. 


73 


about  rather  proudly,  I  thought,  as  one  well  fed. 
"  You  seem  very  happy  to-day,"  I  said.  "  Why,  yes, 
sir,"  answered  Thursday,  "  it's  such  a  ^onor  to  a  man 
to  have  eaten  a  real  dinner" 

It  never  answers  to  slight  the  laws  of  our  nature, 
and  pretend  to  be  independent  of  common  necessities. 
The  inexorable  master  of  every  man  is  his  belly. 
Hunger  is  the  most  terrible  of  all  besiegers  —  the 
strongest  fortress  in  armed  Europe  cannot  contend 
against  him;  and,  from  the  poor  tinker  under  his  rag 
to  the  emperor  in  his  war-pavilion,  no  one  who  under- 
takes camp  life  can  afford  to  neglect  his  warnings. 

Day  after  day  the  lake  has  been  sinking  lower  and 
lower  into  its  bed,  and  black  stony  islets  lift  their  sinis- 
ter-looking heads  above  its  polished  surface  in  a  hun- 
dred places.  And  now,  when  the  water  is  at  its 
lowest,  there  has  come  an  Egyptian  plague  of  flies. 
Even  the  water  is  full  of  little  poisonous  red  creatures 
that  bury  themselves  in  the  skin,  and  have  to  be  picked 
out  with  a  penknife.  And  we  have  thousands  of  big 
flies  on  the  land,  that  settle  continually  on  our  faces 
and  hands,  and  send  a  needle-like  proboscis  down 
through  the  skin,  leaving  on  Thursday  an  envenomed 
swelling  after  every  stab,  but  on  my  own  more  hap- 
pily-constituted cuticle  nothing  worse  than  a  minute 
puncture.  Water  and  air  are  filled  with  a  million  foes. 

Dim  in  the  upper  air  rises  the  red  peak  of  Cruachan. 
There  is  a  strange  patch  of  white  upon  it.  It  is  a  little 
field  of  winter  lingering  into  June.  It  is  pure,  cold 
snow  !  O,  what  a  sensation  to  melt  a  little  of  it  in 
this  mouth  that  never  tastes  anything  more  refreshing 
than  tepid  water  !  What  pleasure  ineffable  to  plunge 
these  hot  and  feverish  hands  into  its  crystalline  depths  ! 


74 


The  Isle  of  Indolence. 


But  that  little  patch  of  Paradise  is  three  thousand  feet 
above  me  !  How  shall  I  ever  climb  those  arduous 
heights?  Day  after  day  I  look  at  it  with  longing  eyes, 
but  it  descends  no  lower — comes  no  nearer;  only  I 
fancy  its  precious  area  has  somewhat  lessened,  for  it 
seems  not  so  broad  to-day  as  yesterday,  and  yesterday 
it  did  not  seem  so  broad  as  the  day  before.  Its  shape, 
too,  alters  somewhat.  It  is  melting  away  in  the  sun's 
eye  ;  and  tiny  rills,  cold  and  pure,  are  draining  its  daz- 
zling field. 

I  am  on  the  highest  peak  of  Cruachan.  I  drink 
fair  water  of  the  rock  sublimed  with  snow ;  for  the 
snow  rests  yet  in  the  stone  crevices  high  above  the 
burning  valleys,  and  the  air  is  still  fresh  and  swreet  on 
the  mountain,  though  the  vaporous  atmosphere  that 
broods  on  the  low  lake  is  heavy  with  a  deadly  languor 
and  weariness. 

Weak  and  exhausted  as  we  are  by  the  overpowering 
heat,  we  are  in  poor  condition  to  climb  mountains ; 
but  to  breathe  for  one  hour  such  a  delightful  air  as  this 
that  fans  my  temples  now,  and  to  quench  one's  thirst 
with  one  draught  of  such  divine  coolness  as  that  bottle 
of  snow-water  at  my  side,  is  enough  to  repay  one  for 
any  toils  such  as  we  have  gone  through. 

When  we  got  into  the  great  desolate  valley  that  lies 
a  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  as  if  the  mountain  were 
a  colossal  statue  of  granite  that  held  a  site  for  a  city  in 
its  lap,  I  realized  more  distinctly  the  exquisite  truth  of 
John  Lewis's  Frank  Encampment  on  Mount  Sinai ; 
for  here,  after  the  burning  drought  of  June,  the  dry, 
red  precipices  far  from  us  stood  out  with  all  their 
peaks  clear  in  stony  detail  against  a  shadeless  sky. 


The  Isle  of  Indolence, 


75 


Having  climbed  the  great  shoulder  of  the  hill  in- 
stead of  following  the  stream  in  the  corrie,  we  found 
that  a  huge  chasm  still  separated  us  from  the  peak, 
but  that  this  chasm  might  still  be  in  some  measure 
avoided  by  creeping  along  the  face  of  a  precipice 
several  hundred  feet  high.  Thursday  preferred  to  try 
the  precipice,  being  an  active  mountaineer ;  but  I 
descended  patiently  into  the  chasm,  and  laboriously 
toiled  out  of  it  again  up  the  stony  peak.  Thursday, 
however,  very  nearly  lost  his  life  on  that  precipice. 

He  had  proceeded  safely  along  a  narrow  ledge  of 
the  rock,  till  he  came  to  one  particular  point,  danger- 
ous enough  to  frighten  a  chamois.  The  path  was 
broken  in  places  by  fissures  two  or  three  feet  wide  ; 
and,  having  crossed  one  or  two  of  these,  Thursday 
found  that  the  ledge  of  rock  he  had  hitherto  followed 
either  ceased  to  exist  altogether,  or  was  at  least  inter- 
rupted by  a  massive  buttress  of  granite  that  projected 
from  the  face  of  the  cliff.  Now,  as  it  happened,  on  the 
buttress  itself  were  two  little  projecting  points ;  and 
Thursday,  partly  in  fool-hardiness,  partly,  I  believe,  in 
that  healthy  unconsciousness  of  danger,  which  is  a 
common  characteristic  of  sound  nerves  and  a  clear 
head,  thought  he  should  like  to  look  round  the  corner. 
But  in  order  to  effect  this  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
put  one  knee  on  the  lower  projection  and  one  hand  on 
the  upper ;  and  that  accordingly  was  the  position  he 
took.  It  was  not  an  enviable  one.  Under  him  was  a 
depth  of  above  a  hundred  feet  of  sheer  precipice,  and 
below  that  a  long  slope  of  granite  debris  ;  and  every- 
body knows  how  hard  granite  is,  and  what  unpleasant- 
looking  edges  its  fractures  offer.  Thursday  looked 
round  the  buttress.   There  was  not  a  ledge  big  enough 


76 


The  Isle  of  Indolence, 


for  a  sparrow  to  perch  upon  ;  it  was  one  smooth  wall 
of  rock.  He  told  me  afterwards  that  he  had  given 
himself  up  for  lost,  but  thought  he  might  as  well  try 
to  get  back  again  as  drop  helplessly  from  fatigue  and 
giddiness.  The  projection  he  held  on  by  was  a  loose 
broken  bit  of  granite  ;  he  knew  it  might  come  away 
at  any  time,  and  then  there  would  be  no  hope.  So  he 
felt  back  cautiously  with  his  foot,  and  in  some  inex- 
plicable fashion  regained  gradually,  but  in  going  back- 
wards all  the  time,  the  narrow  ledge  he  had  left,  and, 
so  returning,  escaped  death. 

He  rejoined  me  on  the  great  rough  pyramid  of  the 
peak.  The  impression  of  John  Lewis's  Sinai  was  so 
strong  upon  me  that  I  could  have  believed  we  were 
climbing  some  great  stony  mountain  of  the  East ;  for 
there  was  no  mist,  and  the  heat  was  almost  insupport- 
able. The  stones  themselves  were  warm  when  we 
touched  them,  and  yet  down  in  the  deep  fissures  the 
snow  lay  white  as  if  in  winter. 

We  rest  at  last  on  the  summit.  The  effect  of  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland  seen  from  one  of  their  highest 
peaks  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  the  ocean  in  a 
gale  of  wind  fixed  forever  in  a  photograph.  It  is  a 
sea  of  mountains,  sublime  in  its  vastness  and  in  the 
huge  proportions  of  its  granite  waves,  yet  not  satisfac- 
tory to  the  artistic  sense.  It  offers  a  splendid  pano- 
rama, but  not  one  picture.  The  sweetest  and  even  the 
sublimest  pictures  are  laid  in  the  habitable  earth,  and 
wre  need  not  go  to  the  snowy  summits  to  seek  them. 
Still,  if  you  would  feel  the  immensity  of  the  world, 
go  to  the  mountain-tops,  and  reflect  that  the  vast  cir- 
cumference of  your  horizon  is  but  a  round  spot  on  its 
mighty  sphere. 


The  Isle  of  Indolence. 


11 


The  great  precipices  of  Ben  Cruachan  are  capital 
subjects  for  study.  I  think  they  are  the  sublimest 
walls  of  barren  rock  I  have  yet  seen.  One  of  them, 
on  the  Loch  Etive  side,  rises  grandly  between  us  and 
the  sea.  We  see  nearly  the  whole  length  of  Loch 
Awe,  the  upper  end  of  Loch  Etive,  and  the  great 
calm  ocean  in  the  west,  dim  with  heat  and  vapor, 
with  mountainous  islands  rising  out  of  it  mysteriously. 
But  to  the  east  are  the  Highland  hills,  clear  and  sharp 
in  their  innumerable  multitude  of  peaks,  —  some  bril- 
liant with  snow,  others  pale  with  inconceivable  dis- 
tance, all  various  with  exquisite  changefulness  of  hue, 
pale  purples,  and  tender  greens,  and  far  away  the  hues 
of  heaven  itself,  rose  and  blue  of  ineffable  delicacy. 

The  great  lake  spreads  out  below  us  calm  like  a 
sea  of  glass.  It  stretches  far  away  into  the  pale  haze 
of  the  high  horizon  ;  and  on  its  whole  length,  from 
end  to  end,  not  a  single  breeze  dims  its  exquisite  sur- 
face. Floating  on  it,  like  fallen  leaves  in  a  still  basin 
in  a  garden,  lie  the  green  isles  ;  and  on  one  of  them, 
a  speck  of  dazzling  white,  stands  the  little  lonely 
camp.  The  moors  are  spotted  with  miniature  lochs, 
set  like  shining  mirrors  in  the  hot  heath. 

It  is  time  to  leave  off  sketching,  and  this  scribbling. 
There  is  a  long  line  of  glittering  light  on  the  mysteri- 
ous Atlantic.    In  half  an  hour  the  sun  will  set. 


78 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  THREE  MAD  MEN  OF  THE  ISLAND,  AND  THE 
MAD  MAN  OF   THE  MOUNTAIN. 

T^HERE  dwells  by  Loch  Awe  a  mysterious  per- 


sonage,  concerning  whom  circulate  the  strangest 
rumors.  Wherever  I  go  I  meet  him?  for  he  wanders 
continually.  His  face  is  sunburnt  and  weather-beaten, 
and  his  full,  handsome  beard  has  the  delicate  variety 
of  color  a  painter  loves ;  the  mustache  dark  brown, 
and  the  beard  itself  passing  into  cool  dark  grays.  He 
wears  the  Highland  costume,  with  a  pair  of  sabots, 
such  as  are  common  in  the  provinces  of  France.  His 
frame  is  powerful  and  muscular.  No  one  has  ever 
seen  him  without  a  silver-mounted  meerschaum,  which 
he  smokes  leisurely.  Like  himself,  it  is  brown  and 
well  seasoned. 

This  mysterious  personage  is  always  attended  by  a 
young  man  with  long  black  hair,  commonly  supposed 
to  be  his  son.  As  to  the  actual  relation  subsisting  be- 
tween the  two,  or  their  purpose  in  remaining  at  Loch 
Awe,  no  one  has  any  knowledge  whatever.  It  is  said 
that  he  has  before  visited  the  lake  under  another  name, 
so  that  the  one  he  now  bears  is  not  considered  to  be 
his  own.  In  the  course  of  the  present  narrative  we 
will  call  him  Malcolm. 

What  has  most  excited  my  interest  in  the  rumors 
concerning  Mr.  Malcolm  is  the  prevalent  opinion  of 


The  Mad  Men. 


79 


his  hardihood.  It  is  commonly  believed  that  he  is 
entirely  independent  of  the  comforts  so  generally 
sought  after  by  tourists  —  that  all  hours  and  all 
weathers  are  alike  to  him.  He  has  a  tiny  boat 
upon  the  loch  rigged  with  jib  and  mainsail,  and  in 
the  stormiest  gales  she  may  sometimes  be  seen,  like 
a  little  white  bird  on  the  great  waves,  flying  before 
the  wind.  Often  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  when  the 
ferryman  carries  some  belated  farmer  over  the  lake, 
he  sees  this  white  sail  glide  across  his  path  till  it 
fades  away  in  the  pale  gray  of  the  distant  waters  ;  and 
sometimes,  on  sunny  days,  the  miniature  craft  comes 
gayly  with  flags  and  music,  and  a  silver  horn  wakes 
the  echoing  hills. 

I  determined  to  seek  this  man's  acquaintance.  I 
felt  sure  that  the  secret  of  his  wanderings  was  less  the 
pretext  of  sport  than  the  love  of  nature  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  we  should  have  this  at  least  in  common, 
and,  it  might  be,  other  feelings  also.  So  I  gave  chase 
one  day,  and  took  him  and  his  friend  prisoners  on 
board  my  craft,  and  towed  his  ship  like  a  prize  to  the 
green  island  where  my  tent  was  pitched. 

He  had  been  fishing  all  night,  and  one  of  his  prizes 
was  a  fine  twelve-pound  trout ;  so,  knowing  very  well 
that  Thursday  had  never  seen  a  trout  weighing  above 
half  a  pound,  the  ordinary  weight  of  the  great  prizes 
of  his  piscatorial  youth  caught  in  Yorkshire  rivulets, 
I  told  him  to  "  go  to  the  boat  and  fetch  a  trout  he 
would  find  in  it."  Off  he  went,  and  to  see  him  return- 
ing with  the  trout  was  exceedingly  amusing.  He 
stopped  frequently  to  look  at  it ;  then  he  talked  to  it, 
and  told  it  in  pure  Yorkshire  that  there  were  no  such 
fish  as  it  where  he  came  from.    At  last  he  arrived  at 


8o  The  Three  Mad  Men  of  the  Island, 


the  camp,  his  astonishment  still  unabated,  and  burst 
forth  into  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the  fish,  when 
Malcolm  told  him  that  trout  twice  the  weight  had 
often  been  taken  in  the  lake,  and  that  once  or  twice 
an  instance  had  occurred  of  a  capture  reaching  above 
thirty  pounds,  all  which  wonderfully  enlarged  Thurs- 
day's views  on  the  subject  of  trout-fishing,  and,  I 
believe,  some  time  afterwards  furnished  matter  for  a 
letter  to  his  father,  a  Yorkshire  gamekeeper. 

Malcolm  left  half  the  trout  at  the  camp,  and  sailed 
away  in  the  evening.  Two  days  afterwards,  I  being 
at  work  with  Thursday  repairing  the  sail  and  fitting 
new  stays,  a  faint  bugle-note  came  with  the  breeze, 
and  soon  a  little  white  sail  glided  between  the  wooded 
islands  near  Inishail,  a  red  flag  flamed  against  the 
green  foliage,  and  Malcolm  landed. 

That  night  he  fished  in  the  Pass  all  night  long  with- 
out sleeping.  I  know  very  well  the  fascination  that 
held  him  there.  You  will  not  find  a  scene  in  all 
Scotland  more  impressive  than  the  Brandir  Pass, 
wThen  the  black  narrowing  water  moves  noiselessly  at 
midnight  between  its  barren  precipices,  or  ripples 
against  them  when  the  wind  w7ails  through  its  gates 
of  war.  Malcolm  said  it  seemed  fearful  and  horrible 
that  night,  as  if  inhabited  by  supernatural  powers ; 
and  truly,  to  glide  before  the  invisible  breeze  into  its 
gloomy  mountain-portals  at  black  midnight  would 
take  the  frivolity  out  of  any  one,  even,  I  do  believe, 
out  of  a  holiday  tourist.  It  is  no  time  for  levity  when 
you  hear  before  you  the  roar  of  the  rapid  Awe,  seeing 
nothing,  gliding  as  it  seems  to  inevitable  destruction, 
in  so  frail  a  bark  as  Malcolm's.  On,  on  glides  the 
fragile  thing,  on  to  the  stony  river! — on  to  the  gates 


and  the  Mad  Man  of  the  Mountain. 


81 


of  death  —  gates  once  barred  by  brave  men  when  the 
Bruce  fought  John  of  Lorn.  The  bones  of  the  slain 
lie  there  yet,  under  their  gray  cairns. 

In  the  early  heat  of  the  next  morning,  I  went  down 
to  the  beach  of  the  island,  and  found  Malcolm  and  his 
friend  there,  lying  sunning  themselves  on  the  sands  ; 
so  I  addressed  them  after  Robinson  Crusoe's  fashion, 
and  invited  them  to  my  castle,  where  they  break- 
fasted. 

Malcolm's  way  of  eating  is  peculiar.  He  has  ac- 
customed his  appetite  to  such  irregular  supplies  that 
it  has  gradually  acquired  the  power  of  storing  up 
materials  for  future  nourishment  whenever  opportu- 
nity offers.  It  is  not  unusual  with  little  boys,  after 
having  eaten  as  much  as  they  possibly  can,  to  fill 
their  pockets  with  oranges  and  cake  by  way  of  pro- 
viding for  future  necessities.  But  Malcolm  has  no 
occasion  for  such  supplementary  magazines,  his  own 
natural  one  being  elastic  enough  to  contain  provision 
not  only  for  present  use,  but  future.  This  vaccine 
accomplishment  of  his  has  proved  at  times  rather  in- 
convenient to  his  host,  when  neither  meat  nor  bread 
would  keep,  and  the  stock  of  both  was  necessarily 
limited.  The  ancient  philosophers  who  objected  to 
the  use  of  the  egg  as  human  food  on  the  sufficient 
ground  that  it  contains  the  four  elements  are  practi- 
cally disregarded  by  him,  and  the  quantity  of  incipient 
chicken  life  sacrificed  annually  to  the  support  of  his 
would  afford  matter  for  calculation.  By  way  of  pre- 
paring himself  for  the  more  serious  business  of  break- 
fast, it  is  a  custom  of  his,  when  eggs  are  attainable, 
to  beat  a  dozen  of  them  together  in  a  basin  with 
whiskey  and  sugar,  and  eat  the  whole  raw  mess  with 
6 


82         The  Three  Alad  Men  of  the  Island, 


a  spoon,  like  soup.  That  morning's  breakfast  in  the 
camp  was  no  unworthy  proof  of  Malcolm's  valor. 
We  sat  very  comfortably  in  my  little  hut,  with  the 
door  open,  and  the  great  calm  lake  around  us  seen 
from  three  of  its  four  windows,  like  three  exquisite 
pictures  painted  with  supernatural  splendor  on  its 
walls.  We  had  capital  trout  to  begin  with,  that  Mal- 
colm had  caught  a  few  hours  before,  with  rosy  flesh 
as  firm  as  salmon.  How  many  of  these  delicious  fish 
we  consumed,  I  cannot  tell.  To  these  succeeded 
mutton-chops  and  boiled  eggs,  and  here  lay  the  most 
serious  deficiency.  Thursday  had  only  boiled  half-a- 
dozen  eggs,  he  having  destined  one  for  me,  one  for 
Malcolm's  friend,  and  four  for  Malcolm.  But  his 
calculations  availed  him  nothing.  When  Malcolm 
perceived  that  the  dish  was  empty,  after  having  bro- 
ken his  fourth  egg,  he  inquired  politely  if  I  would 
allow  him  to  ask  Thursday  for  another  egg ;  then 
called  out,  — 

"  Thursday,  how  many  eggs  did  you  boil !  " 

"  Why,  sir,  I  boiled  six  I"  said  Thursday  aloud; 
then  muttering  to  himself,  "  and  plenty  too  for  three 
people,  after  all  them  trouts  and  mutton-chops." 

"  Six?"  said  Malcolm  interrogatively. 

"  Yes,  sir,  six"  replied  Thursday,  with  firmness. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  only  boiled  six  eggs, 
sir?"  repeated  Malcolm,  severely. 

"  I  thought  you'd  had  enough  mutton-chops  and 
fish  beout  heggs." 

Now,  this  answer,  which  implied  that  Mr.  Malcolm 
was,  in  Thursday's  opinion,  eating  more  than  was 
good  for  him,  was  not,  I  admit,  characterized  by  be- 
coming humility ;  for  Thursday,  in  his  position  in 


and  tJie  Mad  Man  of  the  Mountain. 


83 


life,  ought  not  to  have  presumed  to  set  bounds  to 
the  fleshly  appetites  of  his  superiors.  Neither  does 
the  wording  of  his  reply  leave  nothing  to  be  desired. 
I  know  that  beout  is  not  considered  so  elegant  as  the 
more  classic  "  without/'  for  it  is  in  this  latter  form  that 
the  word  is  found  in  our  best  writers ;  and  I  am  aware 
that  the  aspirate  before  the  word  "  eggs  "  is,  in  fact, 
superfluous.  But  on  the  part  of  Thursday,  I  ought  to 
say  that  he  was  not  yet  disciplined  into  the  submis- 
sive manners  required  from  servants ;  and  as  to  any 
little  defect  of  language  that  may  have  crept  into  his 
reply,  I  may  observe  that,  in  every  case,  people  in 
anger  speak  the  language  which  long  habit  has  ren- 
dered most  natural  to  them.  Recent  refinement  is 
a  thin  disguise  worn  only  in  good  humor ;  put  the 
wearer  out  of  temper,  and  he  doffs  it  in  a  moment. 

"  Go  and  boil  six-and-twenty,"  said  Malcolm. 

"  Very  well,  sir  ;  but  where  am  I  to  find  them?" 

64  You'll  find  two  dozen  in  the  box  in  my  boat." 

Then  I  told  Thursday,  privately,  not  to  mind  Mal- 
colm's order,  but  to  boil  him  four  eggs  only  ;  which, 
with  the  four  he  had  eaten,  the  plates  of  mutton-chops, 
the  plates  of  trout,  the  loaf  of  bread,  and  the  six  cups 
of  strong  coffee,  I  considered  a  sufficient  breakfast. 

After  breakfast  Malcolm  always  smoked  several 
pipes  of  tobacco  ;  and  as  we  smoked  together,  he  told 
me  a  good  story  of  some  ladies  he  had  met  with  on 
the  shore  of  the  lake.  They  were  escorted  by  gentle- 
men ;  and  Malcolm  exchanged  a  few  words  with  them 
about  the  scenery.  "  Have  you  been  to  the  island?" 
said  one  ;  "  there  are  three  men  there  living  in  tents  ; 
each  has  one  tent,  and  they  are  all  mad."  Then, 
turning  towards  Ben  Loy,  the  fair  speaker  continued, 


84  The  TJu'ee  Mad  Men  of  the  Island, 


u  You  see  that  tent  up  there  on  the  mountain ;  it 
belongs  to  another  mad  man  of  the  same  party." 

"  Well,  but,"  said  Malcom,  "  that  happens  to  be 
snow." 

The  idea  of  snow  in  June  afforded  them  infinite 
amusement,  for  snow  is  not  often  observed  at  this 
season  on  the  Alpine  heights  of  the  London  hills. 
Malcolm  gravely  reiterated  the  truth  about  the  matter, 
but  drew  down  upon  himself  nothing  but  ridicule,  and 
so  left  the  tourists  in  disgust. 

These  people  had  not  learned  the  use  of  their  eyes. 
The  snow  on  Ben  Loy  covers  at  this  moment  a  larger 
area  than  twenty  bell-tents ;  and  the  outline  of  the 
patch  indicates  so  plainly  that  it  fills  a  concave  surface 
of  rock,  that  even  a  cockney  might  see  what  it  is. 

The  cool,  round  assertion  that  three  mad  men  live 
in  this  camp  tickles  my  fancy  exceedingly.  I  remem- 
ber that  some  days  ago  a  yachting  party  from  Inveraray 
came  to  see  the  island.  I  was  painting  in  the  hut,  and 
at  the  same  time  giving  Thursday  his  reading  lesson, 
when  we  found  the  camp  suddenly  surrounded  by  the 
enemy.  I  went  on  with  my  work,  and  took  no  notice 
of  the  invading  forces,  but  heard  a  male  voice  say, 
very  distinctly  and  positively,  "  You  see  there  are  three 
tents,  and  one  man  lives  in  each  tent." 

u  By  Jove!"  cried  Malcolm,  who  had  finished  his 
third  pipe,  and  was  amusing  himself  in  the  interim 
with  his  telescope,  —  u  by  Jove,  there  they  are  again, 
the  Oxonians  and  their  sisters  !  " 

"  So  much  the  better.  Since  we  are  here,  three  of 
us,  why  not  affect  madness,  to  confirm  their  idea  that 
the  camp  is  a  species  of  lunatic  asylum  ?  " 

So  we  rigged  ourselves  out  oddly  enough.    As  for 


and  tJie  Mad  Man  of  the  Mountain. 


Malcolm,  he  required  little  embellishment.  He  wore 
a  pair  of  white  sailor's  trousers  and  a  blue  shirt.  His 
long  beard  looked  wild  enough  to  frighten  young 
ladies  whose  papas,  and  uncles,  and  brothers,  and 
lovers  were  most  probably  all  shaven  like  dead  pigs. 
By  way  of  a  companion,  Malcolm  said  he  must  have 
his  big  pipe.  "  Thursday,"  said  he,  "  will  you  fetch 
the  rosewood  box  out  of  my  boat,  please  ?  "  Thursday 
brought  a  thing  like  a  large  wTriting-desk.  Malcolm 
found  a  key,  and  opened  it.  There,  in  a  bed  of  crim- 
son velvet,  lay  the  friend  of  his  bosom,  the  delight  of 
his  eyes,  the  solace  of  his  soul !  It  was  his  favorite 
pipe.  How  glorious  was  its  mighty  bowl !  What 
soft  and  mellow  tints  the  strong  oil  of  a  thousand 
replenishings  had  given  it !  From  the  pale  yellow  of 
the  sea-foam  clay  it  had  darkened  in  its  ripening,  till 
you  might  trace  in  its  exquisite  gradations  all  the  in- 
termediate tints,  down  to  a  rich  brown,  like  the  brown 
of  a  deep  pool  in  a  Highland  torrent.  Its  broad  lid 
was  of  massive  silver,  surmounted  by  a  magnificent 
cairngorm.  By  its  side,  in  separate  lengths,  lay  a 
long  tube  of  the  same  metal,  embossed  with  rich  de- 
signs ;  and  the  mouth-piece  was  made  from  a  lump  of 
pure  yellow  amber. 

Malcolm's  friend  seemed  wild  enough  with  his  long 
black  hair  and  red  shirt. 

For  myself  I  reserved  a  costume  such  as  never  was 
seen  in  the  Highlands.  It  happened  that,  last  winter 
but  one,  I  had  enrolled  myself  amongst  the  pupils  at 
the  celebrated  Gymnasium  of  Monsieur  Triat,  in  the 
Avenue  Montaigne,  at  Paris.  Having  fortunately  fin- 
ished my  course  of  instruction  at  that  excellent  insti- 
tution without  breaking  my  neck,  I  bore  away,  as  a 


86 


The  Three  Mad  Men  of  the  Island, 


memento  of  it,  the  costume  used  in  our  exercises. 
This  somewhat  gaudy  uniform  consisted  of  a  pair  of 
tight  red  drawers,  a  tight  blue  jersey,  a  long  red  sash, 
and  a  pair  of  yellow  boots.  It  had  been  slipped, 
amongst  other  things,  into  one  of  my  portmanteaus, 
and  so  Thursday  found  it  for  me  that  morning. 

So  we  spread  the  deck  of  the  boat  with  a  great 
buffalo  skin  and  carpets,  and  set  sail,  not  forgetting 
Malcolm's  cornet-a-piston,  and  his  big  pipe. 

As  we  stepped  into  the  boat,  Malcolm  cried  out, 
"  Robin  Crusoe !  Robin  Crusoe !  here's  a  footprint 
in  the  sand  !  " 

Yes,  there  on  the  beach  of  my  desolate  island  was 
indeed  visible,  with  fearful  distinctness,  a  footprint  in 
the  sand  !  Sharply  impressed  it  was,  not  by  the  naked 
foot  of  some  cannibal  savage,  come  to  banquet  hor- 
ribly on  the  shore,  but  by  a  pretty  Parisian  shoe,  worn 
by  some  delicate  lady. 

Then  we  gave  chase  to  the  tourists  ;  we,  the  Three 
Mad  Men  of  the  Island.  But  the  Mad  Man  of  the 
Mountain  rested  still  in  his  tent  of  snow. 

Malcolm's  pipe  was  exchanged  for  the  cornet-a- 
piston,  and,  with  martial  music  sounding  over  the 
water,  we  were  soon  in  hot  pursuit.  Alarmed  at  our 
possible  intentions,  (and  what  evils  might  not  be  ap- 
prehended from  three  mad  men?)  these  unhappy 
tourists,  pale  with  fear,  hastened  by  furious  rowing 
to  regain  the  land.  Once  landed,  they  escaped  to  the 
woods.  Malcolm  wished  to  land  also,  and  continue 
the  pursuit ;  but  being  unwilling  to  bring  about  a 
meeting  under  such  circumstances  between  him  and 
the  prettiest  of  the  ladies,  I  felt  it  my  duty,  in  his  own 
interest,  to  oppose  that  proposition. 


and  the  Mad  Man  of  the  Mountain. 


87 


Their  idea  thus  confirmed,  I  have  no  doubt  that 
these  tourists  will  long  embellish  their  tales  of  travel 
with  accounts  of  their  courageous  conduct  in  that  ter- 
rible meeting  with  the  Three  Mad  Men  of  the  Island. 

After  this  pardonable  practical  joke,  I  proposed  to 
Malcolm  to  have  a  swim  in  the  loch  ;  but  he  excused 
himself  at  first  on  the  plea  of  headache.  At  length 
he  consented,  and  I  plunged  in  before  him,  expecting 
him  to  follow.  Some  minutes  afterwards  I  saw  a 
venerable  man  approaching  me  in  the  water.  He 
was  bald  and  majestic,  and  as  he  swam  towards  me  — 
and  he  swam  remarkably  well  —  I  saw  that  his  beard 
swept  the  ripples,  and  behold,  it  was  Malcolm's  beard  ; 
but  the  head  was  not  Malcolm's,  for  my  friend  had  a 
profusion  of  dark  brown  hair,  whereas  this  strong 
swimmer  was  as  bald  as  a  phrenological  bust.  The 
riddle  was  explained,  and  the  apprehensions  of  head- 
ache also,  by  a  handsome  wig  which  lay  with  Mal- 
colm's clothes  in  the  boat.  It  turned  out  that  Malcolm 
was  a  vigorous  man  of  sixty,  with  all  the  strength  and 
buoyancy  of  youth.  How  elastic  his  spirits  were,  and 
how  hardy  his  frame,  I  had  an  excellent  opportunity 
of  observing  during  a  voyage  we  undertook  that  even- 
ing to  the  other  end  of  Loch  Awe. 

This  man  must  have  drunk  of  the  fountain  of 
Eternal  Youth.  After  fishing  during  a  long,  sleepless 
night  in  the  Pass  of  Awe,  in  a  little  cockle-shell  that  a 
strong  salmon  could  upset  in  a  moment,  he  had  gayly 
taken  part  in  a  boyish  frolic,  then  sported  in  the  water 
like  a  young  Etonian,  and  now,  finally,  at  sunset,  ac- 
cepted, without  any  pause  or  hesitation,  my  proposal 
to  sail  twenty  miles  and  back  on  a  cabinless  raft. 


88 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  LAKE  VOYAGE.     LOG  OF  THE  "  BRITANNIA." 

AFTER  having  chased  the  silly  tourists,  we  made 
rapid  preparations  for  our  long  voyage.  I  left 
Thursday  in  the  camp  as  garrison,  having  an  able 
crew  in  Malcolm  and  his  friend.  The  following  nar- 
rative of  our  voyage  is  condensed  from  the  log  of  the 
"  Britannia." 

The  wind  fell  at  sunset,  and  during  the  whole  of 
that  calm  summer's  night  we  floated  so  quietly  that 
our  motion  was  utterly  imperceptible.  It  was  a  de- 
lightful voyage  ;  the  very  slowness  of  it  was  a  great 
charm.  Slowly  the  scenery  changed,  and  slowly  the 
dim  shores  faded  away  behind  us  —  before  lay  endless 
mysteries.  It  was  like  a  glorious  dream  ;  it  was  like 
a  fair  mysterious  picture  of  a  great  white  sail,  curved 
by  some  faint  breath  of  imaginary  wind  ever  going 
we  know  not  whither,  yet  resting  there  eternally  !  I 
lay  on  the  buffalo  skin  on  the  deck,  warmly  clad  in 
fur,  and  Malcolm  sat  for  hours  at  the  helm.  Many  a 
pipe  did  we  smoke  that  night  as  we  talked  over  his 
recollections  of  forty  years  —  we  two  watching  there 
together,  whilst  his  friend  Campbell  slept.  At  last 
the  dawn  came,  and  we  were  in  another  scene ;  for 
we  had  floated  into  the  second  of  the  three  reaches  of 
Loch  Awe. 

When  the  sun  rose  we  landed  in  a  little  rocky  bay, 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


89 


and  made  preparations  for  breakfast.  A  foolish  trout 
or  two  had  snatched  at  our  lifeless  flies  as  they  floated 
behind  the  boat  on  the  calm  water ;  so  we  gathered  a 
few  dry  sticks,  and  made  a  little  fire  between  two 
stones,  to  cook  the  fish  and  boil  our  coffee.  Then 
Malcolm,  great  in  culinary  science,  acted  as  chef  and 
soon  we  had  a  capital  breakfast  of  trout,  and  eggs, 
and  ham.  We  had  a  square  stone  for  a  table,  and  Mr. 
Campbell,  as  waiter,  covered  it  with  a  clean  little 
table-cloth,  and  laid  covers  for  three.  And  a  merry 
meal  we  made  of  it,  we  three. 

This  was  just  at  sunrise,  and  we  enjoyed  that  spec- 
tacle whilst  we  breakfasted.  After  a  due  number  of 
pipes,  the  sun  began  to  be  pleasantly  warm,  and  we 
resumed  our  voyage.  Reclining  on  the  deck,  we  at- 
tained the  marvellous  speed  of  half  a  mile  an  hour, 
and  floated  lazily  into  the  magnificent  bay  that  lies 
opposite  to  the  ruined  castle  of  Ardhonnel.  It  was  a 
glorious  morning,  and  we  sailed  quite  fast  enough. 
There  is  a  time  to  be  swift,  and  a  time  to  be  slow. 
Across  ploughed  fields,  the  express  from  London  to 
Glasgow  may  go  twice  as  fast  as  it  does,  and  welcome, 
—  the  faster  the  better;  and  over  the  Atlantic  waste 
the  mighty  steamers  may  traverse  their  twenty  knots 
an  hour,  without  drawing  forth  any  other  feeling  than 
our  most  cordial  admiration  and  good  wishes.  But 
the  traveller  who  truly  understands  the  uses  of  the 
world,  only  hurries  over  the  dull  desert  that  he  may 
linger  in  the  fair  oasis;  and  there  are  scenes  which 
excite  in  us  no  other  desire  than  to  behold  them  thus 
forever. 

We  three,  at  least,  were  determined  not  to  be  hur- 
ried.   It  is  a  notable  fact  that,  on  a  certain  day  of 


9° 


A  Lake  Voyage. 


June,  in  the  year  of  grace  1857,  three  Englishmen 
were  travelling  in  the  Highlands  at  the  rate  of  half  a 
mile  an  hour,  and  would  not  have  thanked  anybody  to 
get  them  forward  a  bit  faster ;  they  were  not  tourists. 

We  three  tortoises,  then,  or  snails,  or  whatever  you 
like  to  call  us,  floated  thus  lazily  into  a  great  bay  ;  and 
as  the  sun  was  by  this  time  hot,  we  two  younger  ones 
refreshed  ourselves  in  the  water,  whilst  Malcolm  looked 
on  from  the  boat,  and  criticised  our  bad  swimming. 
After  our  bath,  we  resumed  our  attitude  of  profound 
repose,  and  lay  on  the  deck  luxuriously,  with  our 
heads  on  air-pillows  and  our  bodies  stretched  on  the 
buffalo  skin.  My  recollections  of  the  rest  of  our 
voyage  are  strangely  confused  and  indistinct.  I  re- 
member a  ruined  castle,  ivy-clothed,  on  a  beautiful 
island.  I  remember  the  pale  peaks  of  Cruachan  ris- 
ing far  away  in  the  sultry  air ;  and  then  the  castle 
changed  as  if  by  enchantment,  and  its  broken  battle- 
ment assumed  loftier  proportions  and  a  more  fantastic 
form  :  then  I  heard  at  intervals  the  music  of  ripples  on 
the  boat's  side,  as  if  she  danced  before  a  freshening 
breeze  ;  and  there  were  intervals  of  absolute  silence, 
as  if  I  had  become  suddenly  deaf.  And  at  last  I  heard 
the  ripple  no  more,  and  forgot  all  about  the  boat  and 
the  lake,  to  dream  of  a  garden  at  home  in  England 
with  six  old  yew  trees  and  a  sundial. 

"  Captain,  I'm  sorry  to  awake  you,  but  I  wish  to 
know  whether  we  are  to  enter  the  harbor  at  Feord,  or 
to  lie  out  for  the  night." 

It  was  Malcolm's  voice,  and  I  awoke  to  find  myself 
in  a  scene  quite  new  to  me.  During  eight  miles  of  our 
voyage,  Campbell  and  I  had  slept  side  by  side  like  two 
children,  and  Malcolm  had  been  watching  over  us  all 


Log  of  the  "Britannia"  91 

the  time,  and  steering  the  boat  patienly,  though  he  had 
not  so  much  as  dozed  for  sixty  hours.  It  seemed  as  if 
we  had  sailed  into  other,  and  to  me  unknown,  waters  ; 
for  the  third  reacli  of  Loch  Awe  is  as  distinct  from  the 
second  and  first  as  if  it  w^ere  another  lake.  We  sailed 
towards  what  seemed  an  iron-bound  coast  with  smooth 
precipices  of  rock  enclosing  a  little  bay.  But  in  the 
bay,  behold  a  little  narrow  opening  just  wide  enough 
to  admit  the  boat ;  and  through  this  strait  between  the 
rocks  we  glided  softly  into  the  sweetest  miniature  lake 
I  ever  saw,  guarded  all  round  by  most  picturesque 
miniature  mountains,  and  fed  by  a  tiny  stream.  I 
should  never  have  suspected  the  existence  of  this  ex- 
quisite natural  harbor,  if  Malcolm  had  not  told  me  of 
it  before. 

We  selected,  however,  another  bay  for  our  bath  ; 
and  as  Campbell  and  I  bathed  together,  the  boat  rode 
at  anchor,  and  Malcolm  slept  at  last.  After  my  bath 
I  lay  reading  on  the  deck,  and  fell  asleep  too.  Shortly 
after,  Malcolm  awoke  me. 

"Captain,  what's  to  be  done?  This  is  not  a  good 
anchorage,  and  a  strong  breeze  is  coming  from  the 
east,  which  will  be  a  gale  o'  wind  at  night.  Look 
how  the  sky  is  overcast  already ;  there  is  going  to  be 
a  great  change  in  the  weather." 

I  jumped  to  my  feet  at  once,  and  saw  the  white, 
waves  up  already.  Even  in  our  sheltered  bay  the  boat 
dashed  and  splashed,  and  tugged  at  the  cable  violently. 
There  was  a  total  revolution  in  the  weather.  "  We 
must  go  back  to  the  harbor,  Mr.  Malcolm,  and  at 
once,  or  we  shall  not  get  through  the  strait  without 
danger." 

So  we  double-reefed  the  sail,  took  off  our  shoes  and 


92 


A  Lake  Voyage. 


stockings,  rolled  up  our  trousers,  packed  all  the  things 
to  secure  them  from  the  spray,  weighed  anchor,  and 
sailed  into  the  white  breakers.  It  was  now  dusk,  and 
I  stood  at  the  bows  on  the  windward  tube  to  act  as 
man  on  the  look-out.  Wave  after  wave  came  over  the 
tube,  and  I  wTas  often  up  to  my  knees  in  water ;  but  I 
knew  the  boat,  and  trusted  her. 

Then  we  rushed  forward  to  the  gloomy  precipices, 
and  it  seemed  in  the  twilight  as  if  the  wall  of  black 
rock  before  us  could  afford  no  refuge.  Any  stranger 
to  the  place  would  have  thought  we  were  rushing  on 
certain  destruction.  Our  only  chance  of  hitting  the 
entrance  to  the  harbor,  for  it  was  already  nearly  dark, 
was  to  keep  quite  close  to  the  shore  on  our  right,  that 
descended  perpendicularly  into  the  deep  water,  a  tre- 
mendous wall  of  solid  rock,  stained  and  polished  as  if 
it  had  been  built  of  black  marble  by  an  enchanter  in 
the  Arabian  Nights.  So  we  darted  swiftly  between 
the  sombre  portals,  impelled  by  a  howling  gust,  and  in 
a  minute  afterwards  found  ourselves  floating  on  calm 
water,  in  a  little  quiet  lake,  our  speed  decreasing  as  the 
impetus  died  away.  Then  we  dropped  anchor  and 
arranged  ourselves  for  the  night,  in  some  haste,  for  the 
big  drops  were  beginning  to  fall. 

Now,  the  way  we  arranged  matters  was  most  equita- 
ble and  ingenious.  The  deck  afforded  a  spacious  bed, 
big  enough  for  three  persons,  and  we  gave  the  middle 
place  to  Campbell,  he  being  younger  and  more  deli- 
cately constituted  than  we  were.  I  was  enveloped  in 
a  huge  coat  of  sheepskin,  that  descended  to  the  ankles, 
and  I  wore  on  my  head  a  seal-skin  cap,  with  flaps  tied 
down  over  the  ears  by  way  of  night-cap,  and  a  pair  of 
seal-skin  boots  to  keep  my  feet  warm.    I  had  supplied 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


93 


Campbell  with  a  costume  exactly  similar.  Malcolm 
had  a  seal-skin  coat  of  his  own,  and  huge  knitted 
stockings,  that  did  just  as  well  as  our  seal-skin  boots. 
These  stockings  were  a  valuable  addition  to  the  pic- 
turesque of  Malcolm's  costume,  being  of  a  most  bril- 
liant red. 

So  we  went  to  bed,  not  supperless.  Our  counter- 
pane was  quite  water-proof,  and  we  arranged  water- 
proof sheets  over  our  heads  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
protect  both  heads  and  pillows  from  the  rain,  without 
in  any  way  interfering  with  respiration.  Sheltered 
thus,  we  lay  on  the  deck  as  snugly  as  possible,  in  a 
state  of  comfort  really  wonderful  when  you  consider 
that  a  strong  gale  was  blowing  all  the  while  from  the 
east,  which  entered  our  harbor  in  the  form  of  violent 
gusts  from  every  point  of  the  compass,  and  that  the 
rain  was  heavy  and  incessant  the  wThole  night  long. 
As  for  me,  I  slept  so  pleasantly,  and  felt  so  delightful- 
ly warm  and  cosy  in  my  seal-skin  boots  and  night-cap 
and  my  great  sheepskin  coat,  that  I  was  quite  angry 
with  Malcolm  when  he  disturbed  me  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

u  Captain,  I  say,  captain,  sorry  to  disturb  you,  as  you 
seem  so  comfortable,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  I  must 
be  put  ashore." 

"  Confound  you  —  ah,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mal- 
colm :  was  it  your  voice  I  heard  ?  " 

I  opened  my  sleepy  eyes,  and  a  more  pitiable  yet 
ludicrous  sight  they  never  beheld.  There  stood  Mal- 
colm in  the  cold  light  of  early  morning,  drenched  with 
rain,  and  presenting  an  appearance  so  utterly  forlorn 
and  miserable,  that  he  might  have  made  a  guinea  in  an 
hour  or  two  as  a  street  beggar,  if  he  could  have  trans- 
ported himself  in  that  plight  to  the  metropolis. 


94 


A  Lake  Voyage. 


He  had  slept  comfortably  enough  during  the  night, 
but,  owing  to  some  movement  of  his,  the  water-proof 
counterpane  had  hollowed  itself  into  a  perfect  cistern 
or  reservoir  of  water,  and,  another  unlucky  movement 
having  formed  a  fold  in  the  counterpane  which  acted  ad- 
mirably as  a  conduit,  the  whole  contents  of  the  reservoir 
had  been  precipitated  upon  Malcolm's  neck,  whence 
its  chilly  stream  penetrated  to  his  body,  and  even  to 
his  innermost  apparel.  Thus  inundated,  Malcolm  had 
endeavored  to  console  himself  philosophically  with  a 
pipe,  but  his  matches  were  wet  too,  and  wouldn't  burn  ; 
so  he  yielded  to  his  fate,  and  prayed  to  be  put  ashore 
that  he  might  seek  shelter  from  the  bitter  rain.  I 
argued  that  it  was  very  comfortable  where  we  were, 
and  preached  resignation,  being  warm  and  dry  myself, 
just  as  Dives  says  Lazarus  ought  to  be  thankful  for  his 
lot,  and  cheerful  under  it ;  whereas  God  knows  Dives 
would  be  anything  but  patient  if  he  had  to  take  upon 
himself  the  lot  of  Lazarus.  At  last  we  went  ashore, 
and  walked  on  to  a  little  Highland  village,  where  we 
found  an  inn. 

In  ten  minutes  after  our  arrival,  there  was  Malcolm 
all  right  again,  and  merry  as  good-humor  could  make 
him.  I  rather  suspected  the  reason,  when  a  particu- 
larly pretty  Highland  girl  came  into  the  room  to  light 
a  fire  for  us.  She  was  willing  to  learn  the  art  of  cook- 
ery, and  our  excellent  chef  most  kindly  undertook  to 
be  her  instructor.  And  this  it  was  which  produced 
those  beaming  smiles  of  satisfaction  on  good  Mr.  Mal- 
colm's face  !  Such  is  the  power  of  benevolence,  that 
the  mere  hope  of  communicating  to  a  poor  fellow- 
creature  instruction  of  a  nature  calculated  to  mitigate 
the  hardships  of  her  lot  is  sufficient,  as  we  see,  to 


JLog  of  the  uJ3ritannia" 


95 


shed  a  pleasing  radiance  on  the  countenance  in  cir- 
cumstances the  reverse  of  luxurious  ! 

We  had  a  capital  breakfast  of  ham  and  eggs  ;  and 
when  Malcolm  saw  that  there  were  only  a  dozen  eggs 
in  the  dish,  he  requested  our  fair  waiter,  in  the  most 
polite  and  charming  manner,  to  fry  a  few  more  im- 
mediately. I  must  confess  I  felt  a  little  ashamed  of 
Malcolm  and  his  appetite,  but  without  reason  ;  for  he 
soon  ingratiated  himself  so  well  with  every  inhabitant 
of  the  inn,  that  I  believe  he  might  have  staid  there  a 
week  for  nothing,  notwithstanding  his  appetite. 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  our  friend's  happiness  ; 
how  he  enjoyed  his  mighty  breakfast,  and  his  pipe 
after  it,  and  how  he  chatted  with  the  innkeeper  and 
the  old  mother  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  the  pretty 
serving-maid. 

At  last  we  decided,  in  spite  of  the  gale,  to  try  to 
beat  against  it  as  far  as  the  next  inn,  at  any  rate, 
which  would  be  eight  miles  nearer  home.  We  got 
out  of  the  harbor,  and,  under  a  double-reefed  sail,  did 
beat  to  windward  for  a  while  ;  but  Malcolm  was  at  the 
helm,  and  I  fancy  he  regretted  the  black  eyes  of  his 
pupil  at  the  inn,  for  the  boat  did  not  sail  so  near  the 
wind  as  usual,  and  we  decided  to  return  and  wait 
twenty-four  hours  for  a  change  of  weather. 

On  our  return,  the  most  important  question  was, 
what  we  were  to  have  for  dinner.  Our  experienced 
chef  charged  himself  with  the  organization  of  this 
repast.  At  the  mention  of  dinner,  the  Highlanders 
seemed,  as  usual,  much  astonished  ;  for  dining  is  a 
habit  by  no  means  universal,  and,  like  many  other 
southern  usages,  has  as  yet  acquired  but  an  uncertain 
footing  in  the  north.    It  seemed,  however,  to  Mai- 


96 


A  Lake  Voyage, 


colm,  very  much  to  be  regretted  that  so  excellent  a 
custom  should  be  here  comparatively  unknown,  and 
he  busied  himself  in  the  kitchen  with  the  instruction 
of  the  beautiful  maiden  in  the  elements  of  culinary 
science.  Two  or  three  unlucky  chickens  were  run- 
ning about  before  the  door,  whose  lives  he  ruthlessly 
sacrificed,  and  then  proceeded  with  an  unheard-of 
quantity  of  eggs  to  make  us  a  capital  pudding.  Add 
to  this  ham  and  potatoes,  and  it  will  be  evident  that 
we  had  as  good  a  dinner  as  any  traveller  need 
wish  for. 

After  dinner  came  grog  and  tobacco  ;  for  were  we 
not  sailors  in  an  inn?  and  who  shall  forbid  us  the 
sailor's  luxuries?  And  so  we  three  sat  pleasantly  by 
the  great  peat-fire  whilst  the  tempest  howled  outside, 
and  were  as  merry  as  if  we  had  been  staying  there  of 
our  own  free  will.  I  can't  say  much  for  our  beds, 
because,  though  not  proud,  I  confess  to  a  certain 
degree  of  daintiness  as  to  my  bedding.  I  like  sheets, 
for  instance,  and  clean  ones,  and  I  don't  like  dirty 
blankets,  wherein  Highland  drovers  have  preceded 
me.  Now,  there  were  no  sheets  whatever  on  our 
beds,  and  as  to  the  blankets  —  but  these  are  not 
agreeable  reminiscences. 

The  next  morning  we  quitted  the  inn,  and  the  land- 
lord, according  to  the  courteous  old  Highland  custom, 
gave  us  each  a  glass  of  whiskey  for  nothing  after  the 
bill  was  paid,  and  then  walked  with  us  down  to  the 
boat.  How  astonished  he  was !  "  Never  was  the 
like  seen  on  this  loch ;  she  was  a  wonderful  boat ; 
them  that  made  her  was  surely  clever  —  they  had 
great  schooling." 

The  wind  was  dead  against  us,  and  quite  strong 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


97 


enough  to  be  agreeable.  The  waves  were  five  feet 
high,  which  indicates  rough  weather  on  a  narrow, 
land-locked  sheet  of  water.  We  packed  everything 
with  great  care  in  the  water-proof  sheets,  and  laid  all 
the  luggage  in  the  middle  of  the  deck,  binding  it 
down  with  cords.  Then  we  pulled  through  the  little 
strait,  and  ten  minutes  afterwTards  were  beating  to 
windward.  The  landlord  and  a  friend  of  his  followed 
along  the  shore,  watching  us  with  fear  and  wonder  ; 
for  a  true  mountaineer  dreads  water,  and  the  art  of 
sailing  against  the  wind  is  ever  to  him  an  incom- 
prehensible mystery. 

For  eight  miles  wTe  worked  thus  in  the  teeth  of  the 
wind,  and  so  got  to  Port  Inisherrich.  Malcolm  looked 
forlorn  as  he  stepped  ashore.  He  had  been  sitting 
barefooted  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  in  his  white  sailor's 
trousers  ;  and  now  the  trousers,  which  were  wret  with 
rain  and  spray,  clung  to  his  manly  limbs,  and  our 
friend  resembled  exactly  a  professional  London  men- 
dicant in  the  character  of  a  shipwrecked  mariner. 
Malcolm  had  but  that  one  pair  of  trousers  on  board 
our  craft ;  so,  in  order  to  dry  them,  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  submit  his  person  to  the  process  of 
roasting.  There  being  an  excellent  fire  in  the  kitchen 
at  Port  Inisherrich,  he  took  his  station  before  it,  and 
bore  with  great  courage  the  inevitable  torture.  It  is, 
in  truth,  a  most  uncomfortable  way  of  procuring 
one's  self  the  luxury  of  a  dry  seat.  When  the  evapora- 
tion begins,  one  experiences  sensations  of  an  alarming 
character ;  yet  so  mixed,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to 
analyze  them  satisfactorily.  As  to  prudence,  when 
the  caloric  imparted  to  the  person  by  the  fire  is  in  ex- 
cess of  that  which  is  carried  off  by  evaporation,  there 

7 


98 


A  Lake  Voyage. 


is  not  the  slightest  danger  to  be  apprehended.  When 
Malcolm's  trousers  ceased  to  steam,  and  the  fine 
sculpture  of  his  legs  was  no  longer  visible,  his  spirits 
rose  rapidly  to  their  usual  degree  of  good  humor ; 
and  having  replenished  the  inevitable  pipe,  he  took 
his  old  station  at  the  helm,  and  we  again  set  sail. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  wind 
had  fallen.  Still,  a  light  breeze  blew  sufficiently  in 
our  favor  to  allow  us  to  hold  our  course  ;  but  at  night 
this  also  fell,  and  we  passed  the  whole  night  on 
board,  steering  and  sleeping  by  turns,  except  when 
we  rowed  occasionally  to  get  an  offing  to  catch  some 
transient  breath. 

In  all  that  night  we  only  made  eight  miles,  for  the 
sun  rose  as  we  reached  Port  Sonachan.  And  a  more 
magnificent  sunrise  I  never  saw.  Slowly  the  dawn 
came  in  the  east,  and  gradually  the  sky  brightened  ; 
then  suddenly  a  flood  of  light  illumined  every  crag 
and  mound  on  the  hills,  every  tree  in  the  forest,  every 
tuft  of  grass  on  the  sloping  pastures. 

We  floated  in  a  glassy  calm.  Malcolm  lay  on  the 
deck  with  his  face  turned  westwards.  I  was  sitting  at 
the  stern,  looking  to  the  east. 

"  There  is  a  delightful  breeze  in  our  favor,"  said 
Malcolm  ;  "  it  is  coming  up  from  the  west." 

"  And  there  is  a  tremendous  wind  against  us,"  I 
answered  ;  "  it  is  coming  down  from  the  east." 

We  were  both  right.  We  looked  westwards,  and 
saw  a  steady  ripple  advancing  towards  us ;  we  looked 
eastwards,  and  the  white  waves  were  foaming  under 
a  violent  east  wind.  We  ourselves  lay  becalmed  in 
a  neutral  sheet  of  glassy  water  that  separated  the 
hostile  winds. 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


99 


The  west  wind  came  up  quickly  and  filled  our  sail. 
The  east  wind  came  down  and  met  the  west  wind* 
Our  sail  flapped  and  shivered  as  the  two  winds  strug- 
gled for  the  mastery,  and  then  strained  tight  under 
the  pressure  of  the  conqueror. 

So  it  was  the  old  story,  and  we  were  again  beating 
against  a  foul  wind.  Malcolm  lay  fast  asleep  on  the 
deck,  weary  of  watching  ;  and  as  for  Campbell  —  but 
to  explain  the  peculiar  precariousness  of  his  position, 
I  must  revert  to  the  construction  of  my  boat. 

She  has  four  rowlocks,  two  on  each  side.  Com- 
monly, she  carries  only  two  oars.  The  rowlocks 
revolve  in  iron  sockets  which  stand  on  the  gunwales. 
The  boat  has  no  bulwark,  except  a  little  one  three 
inches  high,  because  bulwarks  are  an  impediment  to 
sailing ;  but  when  we  are  not  rowing,  the  oars  rest 
in  these  revolving  rowlocks,  parallel  with  the  keels, 
and  so  serve  the  purpose  of  rails.  It  was  on  one 
of  these  oars  that  Mr.  Campbell  took  his  seat ;  and 
I  observed  with  alarm  that  occasionally,  when  we 
fell  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  Mr.  Campbell  was 
within  a  very  little  of  falling  backwards  into  the 
water.  He  was  fast  asleep.  So,  as  I  did  not  consider 
a  boat's  rail  on  a  rough  day  the  best  seat  for  a  sleeper, 
I  made  my  friend  lie  down  on  the  deck,  and  did  all 
the  work  of  the  boat. 

Malcolm  awoke  soon  after,  and  we  beat  up  to  the 
green  island  ;  and  Malcolm  was  cunning  enough  to 
sound  the  trumpet,  under  pretext  of  explaining  to  me 
the  mechanism  of  the  instrument,  but  in  reality  to 
warn  Thursday  of  our  arrival,  that  he  might  make 
culinary  preparations  for  our  reception.  And  then 
we  breakfasted  in  the  most  copious  manner  on  the 


IOO 


A  Lake  Voyage. 


grass  under  the  shadow  of  the  tents,  and  after  break- 
fast fell  fast  asleep,  all  three  of  us,  then  and  there. 

As  for  Thursday,  he  had  lived  alone  in  the  island 
during  these  days  and  nights,  sleeping  with  no  other 
neighbors  than  those  silent  ones,  the  dead  people  in 
the  graves ;  yet  we  found  him  in  health  and  safety, 
and  mental  calm,  with  hair  unblanched  by  fear. 


IOI 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FURTHER    EXTRACTS    FROM    THE    LOG    OF  THE 
"  BRITANNIA." 

AS  the  reader  will  propably  be  troubled  with  a 
good  deal  about  sailing  in  the  course  of  the 
present  work,  the  author  has  mercifully  decided  to 
spare  him  for  the  present,  when  treating  of  that  sub- 
ject, a  minuteness  of  detail  which  would  be  likely  to 
prove  monotonous.  It  is  very  possible  that  the  reader 
regards  all  boats  with  dislike  or  fear  —  as  murderous 
inventions  for  the  destruction  of  human  life  ;  or  with 
indifference  —  as  things  which  do  not  concern  him  ; 
or  with  contempt  —  as  toys :  and  a  person  who  does 
not  look  upon  them  with  quite  other  feelings  than 
these  would  never  hear  with  patience  those  endless 
histories  of  alternate  storm  and  sunshine,  foul  and  fair 
wind,  which  possess  so  inexhaustible  an  attraction  for 
better-constituted  minds. 

So  I  propose  to  myself  in  this  chapter  to  conclude 
what  I  have  to  say  of  the  "  Britannia  ;  "  to  give  some 
further  account  of  her  voyages,  and  to  state  fairly  the 
qualities  and  defects  which  frequent  trials  have  dis- 
covered in  her. 

I  have  planned  a  tent  for  the  deck.  This  gives 
more  comfortable  accommodation  on  a  wet  night  than 
Malcolm  enjoyed,  when,  as  narrated  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  the  rain-water  ran  down  his  neck.    I  extract 


102 


Further  Extracts  from  tfa 


from  the  log  the  following  account  of  a  night  passed 
under  this  new  tent :  — 

"  In  the  little  basin  at  Feord,  which  we  entered  at 
nightfall,  we  cast  anchor  at  once,  without  landing,  and 
Thursday  soon  erected  his  new  boat-tent,  which  I 
found  to  be  a  decided  improvement  on  the  former 
open-air  arrangement.  There  was  room  in  it  for  two 
persons  in  a  sitting  or  recumbent  posture  ;  and  I  re- 
joiced, on  entering  this  hospitable  pavilion,  to  dis- 
cover that  Thursday  had  spread  the  deck  with  India- 
rubber  cloth,  and  had  laid  over  that  several  strata  of 
dry  carpet  and  skins  of  beasts,  so  that,  propped  up  by 
air-pillows  at  the  end  of  the  tent,  which  lay  to  the 
head  of  the  boat,  I  reclined  luxuriously  like  a  Turk, 
and  dined  in  great  state,  being  wraited  upon  by  Thurs- 
day on  his  knees.  A  regard  for  veracity  compels  me, 
however,  to  observe  that  these  genuflections  are  not  to 
be  understood  as  a  proof  of  humility  on  the  part  of 
Thursday,  nor  of  inordinate  pride  on  mine,  since  they 
arose  simply  from  the  deficient  height  of  the  dining 
apartment,  which  necessitated  this  abridgment  of  my 
domestic's  person.  After  we  had  both  dined,  Thurs- 
day, whom  I  had  taught  to  read,  lay  at  a  distance  as 
respectful  as  the  narrow  limits  of  our  lodging  per- 
mitted, and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  surprising  ad- 
ventures of  Robinson  Crusoe,  which  for  him,  enviable 
student !  still  possessed  the  first  charms  of  novelty. 
His  master,  however,  less  intellectually  inclined, 
lighted  his  evening  pipe,  whose  incense-cloud  crept  to 
the  roof  of  the  tent  like  a  wreath  of  mist,  and  thus 
escaped  at  the  open  end  at  the  stern.  Then,  when 
the  last  fibre  of  tobacco  in  the  bowl  of  my  brown  meer- 
schaum was  turned  to  pale  dust,  and  the  history  of 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


Robinson  Crusoe  had  no  longer  power  to  keep  poor 
Thursday's  eyelids  from  falling,  I  told  him  to  make 
my  bed,  and  turned  in  and  fell  asleep  at  once  to  a 
strange  lullaby  of  pattering  rain-drops  and  wailing 
wrinds,  and  so  never  stirred  till  Thursday  awoke  me 
in  the  morning,  and  the  bright  sunshine  streamed  in 
at  the  open  end  of  the  tent." 

There  is  a  great  advantage  in  a  boat-tent  which  no 
land-tent  can  ever  possess.  It  is  possible  in  any  boat- 
tent  to  combine  narrowness  of  dimension  with  an 
abundant  supply  of  air.  This  may  be  done  by  simply 
leaving  that  end  of  the  tent  quite  open  which  is  at  the 
stern  of  the  boat.  No  matter  how  the  wind  changes 
during  the  night,  the  boat  will  always  keep  her  head 
to  it,  and  therefore  neither  wind  nor  rain  will  ever 
enter  the  open  end  ;  but  the  foul  air  is  sure  to  escape 
as  fast  as  it  is  generated  by  running  along  the  roof 
(just  as  the  tobacco  smoke  did),  and  as  fast  as  it  es- 
capes, its  place  is  supplied  by  fresh  air  from  without. 
Often  that  evening  in  one  quarter  of  an  hour  the 
wind  would  come  from  every  point  of  the  compass ; 
but  the  boat  swung  round  and  round,  and  always  kept 
the  closed  end  of  the  tent  to  windward. 

Being  occupied  with  my  drawing  the  next  morning, 
it  was  after  one  P.  M .  when  I  left  the  bay.  I  may 
remind  the  reader  that  this  bay  is  at  the  wrestern  ex- 
tremity of  Loch  Awe.  We  left  it  with  a  fair  wind, 
sailing  through  the  narrow  channel  that  unites  it  to 
the  great  lake,  and  then,  without  a  minute's  pause  or 
interruption,  the  same  fair  wind  wafted  us  up  to  the 
River  Orchay  at  the  other  extremity  —  a  magnificent 
and  memorable  voyage  on  a  sunny  inland  sea  as  long 
as  Windermere  and  Ullswater  put  together. 


Further  Extracts  from  the 


It  was  the  perfection  of  fresh-water  sailing.  There 
I  lay,  hour  after  hour,  in  one  long  trance  of  tranquil 
happiness,  two  instincts  strong  in  me  from  childhood, 
the  love  of  landscape  and  the  love  of  boating,  feasted 
and  gratified  to  the  utmost. 

We  passed  the  castle  of  the  Black  Knight.  We 
passed  the  Isle  of  Erreth,  the  isle  of  tombs.  We  passed 
the  castle  Ardhonnel,  first  nest  of  feudal  Argyll.  We 
heard  the  roar  of  Blairgower,  where  the  stream  plunges 
into  its  deep  abyss.  We  watched  the  magnificent 
range  of  Cruachan,  forming  the  background  to  an 
infinite  succession  of  wonderful  natural  pictures.  And 
all  this  time  the  sky  above  was  blue  and  bright,  with 
only  a  few  white  clouds  sailing  majestically  before  the 
wind,  and  the  broad  waters,  of  a  yet  deeper  blue,  were 
broken  only  by  such  laughing  waves  of  summer  as 
dance  about  the  golden  bark  and  bear  the  beautiful 
swimmers,  in  Etty's  poem  of  Pleasure. 

Thus,  without  haste  or  effort,  but  serenely  as  the 
white  clouds  above  us,  the  white  sail  of  the  "  Britan- 
nia," curved  by  the  constant  breeze,  drew  us  with  a 
gentle,  luxurious  motion  through  twenty  miles  of  the 
fairest  scenery  in  Europe.  It  was  nearly  sunset  when 
we  passed  through  the  narrow  strait  that  separates  the 
Black  Islands,  then  we  glided  swiftly  along  the  green 
coast  of  Inishail,  passed  the  beautiful  Fraoch  Elan, 
famous  as  the  enchanted  Hesperides  of  the  Highlands, 
shrouding  in  thick  growth  of  wood  the  remains  of  a 
little  castle  whose  lords  were  most  chivalrous  gentle- 
men, and  whose  guests  were  anointed  kings.  Then 
we  sailed  where  the  lake  is  dark  and  deep,  under  the 
shadow  of  those  frowning  hills  which  had  shown  so 
pale  from  afar  in  the  morning.    And  so  we  held  our 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


way  towards  Kilchurn,  and  then  into  the  stream  of 
the  Orchay,  where  we  furled  sail  and  cast  anchor. 

Thursday  erected  the  boat-tent  which  had  served  us 
so  well  the  preceding  night  at  the  other  end  of  the 
lake,  and  I  was  examining  the  contents  of  the  provis- 
ion box  with  a  view  to  supper,  when  a  friendly  voice 
hailed  me  from  the  river  side  ;  and,  looking  up,  I  rec- 
ognized my  friend  the  doctor,  who  invited  me  to  land 
and  spend  the  evening  with  him.  The  doctor  had 
rooms  in  a  comfortable  farm-house  close  at  hand ;  so 
we  spent  a  merry  evening  together,  Thursday  all  the 
time  being  under  the  boat-tent,  absorbed  in  the  study 
of  the  provision  box  and  the  adventures  of  Robinson 
Crusoe.  Late  at  night  I  went  on  board  to  sleep,  the 
doctor  having  pressed  me  in  vain  to  accept  a  bed. 
What  did  /  want  with  a  bed,  with  so  noble  a  yacht  at 
anchor  in  the  river? 

It  is  singular  that,  though  everybody  has  been  find- 
ing fault  with  the  "  Britannia"  ever  since  she  was 
built,  no  one  ever  finds  out  her  real  faults.  In  kind- 
ness to  these  people  I  here  propose  to  point  them  out. 

The  greatest  fault  is  want  of  sufficient  bulk  and 
buoyancy  in  the  tubes.  An  enormous  reserve  of  float- 
ing power  is  essential  in  a  double  boat.  For  want  of 
it,  the  "  Britannia,"  in  heavy  squalls,  submerges  her 
lee  tube  when  there  is  any  burden  on  her.  She  is, 
therefore,  not  fit  to  carry  heavy  luggage  in  rough 
weather.    This  want  of  buoyancy  is  a  great  fault. 

Proofs  of  this  have  only  been  too  frequent  since  my 
arrival  here  ;  for  instance,  in  the  following  extracts 
from  her  log  :  — 

"  We  had  to  beat  against  a  stormy  wind  in  thick, 
blinding  rain  from  the  River  Orchay  to  the  Bay  of  In- 


io6 


Further  Extracts  from  the 


nistrynich.  Though  we  sailed  under  double  reefs,  the 
wind  was  yet  violent  enough  to  snap  a  strong  sheet 
like  packthread,  and  if  a  snug  little  bay  had  not  been 
close  at  hand  we  should  have  lost  way  whilst  replacing 
it.  The  waves  were  high  and  fierce,  with  white  crests 
that  the  gale  carried  off  in  a  fog  of  spray.  The  spray 
and  rain  together  concealed  at  times  the  shores  of  the 
loch,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  out  at  sea,  far 
from  the  land.  A  heavy  squall  caught  us  once,  and 
buried  the  lee  tube  entirely,  I  was  up  to  my  knees 
in  water,  and  the  baggage  was  floating  about  the 
deck ;  but  the  good  boat  rose  again  immediately,  the 
deck  cleared  itself  of  water,  and  yet  we  had  never  to 
trouble  ourselves  with  baling.  In  a  common  open 
boat,  after  shipping  a  sea  like  that,  a  desperate  contest 
would  have  begun  immediately  between  Thursday, 
armed  with  the  orthodox  tin  can,  and  an  endless  suc- 
cession of  breakers." 

Here  is  another  extract.  It  describes  my  removal 
from  the  Island  of  Inishail. 

"  In  crossing  the  lake  with  the  'Britannia'  laden 
to  the  water's  edge,  we  found  ourselves  in  rather  an 
unpleasant  predicament.  The  walls  and  floors  of  the 
encampment,  piled  upon  the  deck,  raised  us  high 
above  it.  The  sail  was  doubled-reefed,  and  the  tiller- 
ropes  exceedingly  inconvenient  to  work.  The  novelty 
of  finding  one's  self  raised  up  to  so  lofty  a  position  above 
the  water  had  a  certain  charm,  and  I  was  expatiating 
to  Thursday  on  the  desirableness  of  having  a  deck  at 
the  height  of  the  floor  we  were  standing  upon,  with  a 
snug  little  cabin  under  it,  when  a  tremendous  squall, 
from  which  there  was  no  escape  whatever  (for  we 
were  in  the  very  middle  of  the  lake),  came  whitening 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


the  waves  to  the  eastward.  I  tried  to  get  the  sail  low- 
ered, but  there  was  no  way  of  doing  it  without  cutting 
the  halyard,  because  the  winch  was  hidden  under  a 
quantity  of  luggage  ;  so  I  determined  to  let  the  squall 
do  its  worst,  and  leave  the  sail  to  shiver  in  the  wind. 
It  was  very  soon  upon  us,  aizd  drove  the  whole  of  the 
lee  tube  deep  under  water;  indeed,  the  whole  boat 
ntshed  under  water,  six  feet  of  her  leitgth  beiivg 
invisible  under  a  boiling  surge,  I  expected  every- 
thing to  be  washed  off  the  deck,  ourselves  included  ; 
but  managed  to  bring  her  up  to  the  wind,  when  the 
bows  rose,  and  shortly  afterwards  the  squall  abated. 
We  had  passed  a  cord  or  two  over  the  cargo,  which 
probably  saved  it  from  being  washed  away.  Of  course 
the  boat  was  none  the  worse  for  having  been  under 
water,  as  not  a  drop  could  ever  enter." 

Another  fault,  also  due  to  want  of  buoyancy  and 
height  in  the  tubes,  is  the  comparative  ease  with  which 
the  "  Britannia's  "  bows  may  be  forced  under  water 
when  going  before  the  wind.  Often,  when  sailing 
before  a  violent  wind,  I  have  let  it  force  three  or  four 
feet  of  her  length  under  water.  No  real  harm  comes 
of  this,  except  that  it  stops  speed,  and  wets  the  passen- 
gers with  showers  of  spray.  This  is  disagreeable,  but 
not  dangerous.  In  common  boats,  this  vice  is  often 
the  cause  of  fatal  accidents.  A  yacht  on  Derwent- 
water,  over-masted,  went  down  head  foremost  in  this 
way,  and  those  on  board  were  drowned. 

As  a  piece  of  construction,  another  glaring  fault  of 
the  u  Britannia  "  is,  that  she  is  two  whole  boats  joined 
together  by  beams,  and  not  two  half  boats.  This  de- 
fect I  owe  to  the  South  Sea  models  in  the  Louvre,  and 
therefore  it  is  none  of  mine,  though  I  had  no  business 


io8 


FurtJier  Extracts  from  the 


to  imitate  it.  It  is  indeed  a  very  great  defect,  and  the 
usual  ingenuity  of  the  savages  failed  them  entirely 
here,  or  they  would  have  found  this  out  by  experience, 
and  discovered  the  remedy.  In  every  double  boat  the 
inner  sides  ought  to  be  smooth  and  straight  from  end 
to  end.  If  you  choke  up  the  channel  with  bulging 
forms  inside,  your  boat  can  never  attain  high  speed. 
The  "  Britannia  "  only  sails  six  knots  an  hour  at  best. 
When  I  study  the  currents  and  eddies  produced  be- 
tween the  tubes  at  five  or  six  miles  an  hour,  I  see  that 
her  wedge-shaped  bows  drive  two  currents  of  water 
inwards,  which  meet  each  other  like  the  two  lines  in 
the  capital  letter  V.  Where  they  meet  they  have  to 
rise  into  a  wave,  because  at  that  point  the  channel  be- 
tween the  tubes  is  exactly  a  foot  narrower  than  it  is  at 
the  cutwater.  This  wave  is  maintained  nearly  at  its 
first  height  till  the  tube  begins  to  narrow  again  to- 
wards the  stern,  and  the  force  expended  in  raising  this 
weight  of  water  is  of  course  deducted  from  the  speed 
of  the  boat. 

Again,  in  the  construction  of  a  double  boat,  as  much 
attention  ought  to  be  given  to  her  lines  as  if  she  were 
a  single  one.  We  have  all  gone  wrong  hitherto  in 
this  respect.  The  South  Sea  savages  were  wrong 
with  their  straight-sided,  double  canoes,*  and  straight 

*  In  the  old  quarto  edition  of  Captain  Cook's  Voyages, 
which  I  have  at  hand,  I  find  elaborate  drawings  of  the  South 
Sea  double  canoe,  with  plans  and  sections;  and  in  all  these 
drawings  the  sides  of  the  canoe  are  parallel,  except  at  the  ex- 
tremities. In  the  Louvre,  however,  the  lines  of  one  or  two 
models  of  double  canoes  are  almost  as  good  as  those  of  a 
Venetian  gondola.  The  balancing-logs,  though,  are  merely 
logs  of  timber  pointed  at  the  ends,  as  one  cuts  a  common  lead 
pencil. 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


109 


balancing-logs.  Mr.  Richardson  was  wrong  with  his 
straight-sided,  round,  iron  tubes,  and  I  was  wrong 
with  my  straight-sided  boat-shaped  pontoons. 

Now,  when  I  indicate  these  faults,  I  know  before- 
hand that  all  those  kind  friends  who  were  always 
finding  imaginary  defects,  but  lacked  the  wit  or  dis- 
cernment to  discover  the  real  ones,  will  cry  out 
together,  u  We  told  you  so ! "  Pardon  me,  good 
friends,  you  did  not  tell  me  so.  You  told  me  the  boat 
would  sink,  and  it  has  not  sunk  ;  you  said  the  tubes 
wTould  be  torn  asunder  —  they  are  as  stiff  and  firm  as 
ever,  bound  tightly  to  their  strong  beams  ;  you  told 
me  the  boat  would  be  capsized,  and  she  has  not  been 
capsized  ;  you  said  she  would  never  sail  to  windward, 
and  I  have  sailed  against  a  gale  from  one  end  of  Loch 
Awe  to  the  other.  Of  all  your  idle  predictions,  not 
o7te  has  been  verified.  And  now,  when  I  tell  other 
and  more  intelligent  readers  of  real  faults,  in  order 
that  future  constructors  may  avail  themselves  of  my 
experiments,  do  not  pretend  you  knew  them  before. 
You  had  all  the  will  to  discover  defects,  and  all  the 
desire  to  make  predictions  of  disaster  which  might  be 
fulfilled,  but  you  lacked  the  sense  to  see  the  really 
weak  points,  and  the  foresight  to  prophesy  the  degree 
and  kind  of  failure. 

As  to  safety,  the  object  I  proposed  to  myself,  I  have 
succeeded  completely.  The  boat  is  safe  to  that  degree 
that  any  one  who  has  been  accustomed  to  her  is  un- 
fitted for  all  common  boats  ever  after.  I  have  got  so 
used  to  carrying  canvas  in  all  weathers,  that  hence- 
forth I  feel  myself  disqualified  for  all  other  craft.  I 
have  lost  that  wakeful  apprehension  of  possible  danger 
which  is  so  essential  to  a  yachtsman.    Safety  breeds 


no 


Log  of  the  "Britannia" 


carelessness.  But  are  we  to  place  our  lives  volunta- 
rily in  constant  jeopardy  that  we  may  not  grow  care- 
less ?  Is  not  careless  safety  better  than  careful  peril  ? 
I  would  rather  sing  merrily  at  the  helm,  when  the 
storm  is  raging,  than  count  in  anxious  silence  the 
chances  of  Life  or  Death. 


Ill 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  FRIEND  IN  THE  DESERT. 

MALCOLM  is  not  the  only  person  who  has  visited 
the  camp.  Lonely  as  I  am,  I  have  friends  and 
visitors.  These  visitors  are  of  all  sorts,  from  the  peer- 
age down  to  absolute  pauperism. 

One  day,  on  the  island,  an  old  man  of  eighty  came 
to  see  me.  I  knew  him  here  several  years  ago.^  He 
is  not  very  rich ;  indeed,  some  people  might  find 
it  difficult  to  live  on  his  income,  wrhich  does  not 
exceed  threepence-halfpenny  a  day.  He  is  a  house- 
holder, but  his  household  is  limited  to  himself ;  and 
his  house  is  worth,  as  it  stands,  from  three  to  five 
pounds,  exclusive  of  the  site.  A  house  worth  five 
pounds,  and  an  income  of  threepence-halfpenny  a 
day,  not  a  soul  to  help  one,  and  the  burden  of  eighty- 
two  years  on  one's  back  !  Somewhat  meagre  materials 
for  happiness,  these. 

The  people  say  he  seeks  me  from  selfish  motives ; 
that  because  I  rendered  him  a  little  service  years  ago, 
he  thinks  I  may  do  as  much  to-day  or  to-morrow. 
Well,  and  if  a  little  self-interest  does  urge  his  old  tot- 
tering limbs  to  the  camp,  what  harm  is  done  ?  Is  poor 
old  Duncan  the  only  person  in  this  world  who  keeps 
up  an  acquaintance  which  is  likely  to  be  advantageous 
to  him?  I  think  I  know  others  who  have  not  the 
same  excuse  of  iron  necessity,  and  who  yet  pay  court 


112 


A  Friend  in  the  Desert. 


to  more  powerful  men,  with  more  of  slavish  syco- 
phancy than  this  poor  simple  old  peasant  is  capable 
of.  His  little  wiles  are  so  plain  and  on  the  surface,  I 
can  read  them  all  beforehand,  so  that  there  is  really 
no  deceit.  He  knows  that  I  know  what  he  wants. 
It  is  all  quite  straightforward  between  us.  He  comes 
to  me,  to  the  camp,  and  he  gets  a  cup  of  hot  tea  or 
coffee,  —  beverages  rare  to  him,  and  precious  as  the 
nectar  of  the  gods,  —  and  while  he  drinks  his  coffee,  he 
enjoys  a  conversation  in  which  he  finds  endless  novel- 
ty, and  a  pleasant  stimulus  to  an  aged  but  by  no 
means  worn-out  brain,  which  still  retains  its  appetite 
for  information.  And  then  he  knows  that  when  he 
goes  away  there  will  be  a  silver  shilling  in  his  pocket 
that  was  not  there  when  he  came.  And  with  all  these 
inducements,  is  it  not  rather  a  proof  of  great  delicacy 
in  my  poor  neighbor  not  to  come  ten  times  oftener? 
He  was  with  me  a  few  days  ago,  and  I  know  he  will 
not  come  near  me  again  for  six  weeks,  unless  I  send 
for  him.  And  what  sort  of  a  life  will  he  have  of  it  in 
the  mean  time?  In  the  morning,  when  he  awakes  in 
that  little  damp  cottage  by  the  stream,  who  lights  the 
old  fellow's  fire?  wrho  gets  him  his  breakfast?  If  you, 
Mr.  Dives,  who  read  this  somewhat  unsympathetically, 
—  if  you  live  to  fourscore  years,  you  will  be  petted 
and  nursed  like  a  new-born  babe.  Petted  and  nursed 
you  entered  upon  life,  nursed  and  petted  you  will  go 
out  from  it.  If  your  lordship's  little  finger  should 
happen  to  ache  when  it  shall  be  venerable  with  the 
wrinkles  of  four  fifths  of  a  century,  respectful  envoys 
will  come  galloping  on  swift  steeds  from  distant  castles 
and  halls,  to  express  the  deep  interest  and  anxiety  of 
their  several  masters  in  the  well-being  of  that  impor- 


A  Friend  in  the  Desert.  113 


tant  member  of  your  lordship's  person.  A  maiden, 
swift  and  silent  in  all  her  movements,  shall  light  your 
fire  whilst  you  are  yet  in  unconscious  sleep  in  the 
great,  curtained,  tented  bed.  Kind  eyes  of  son  or 
daughter  shall  watch  for  your  waking,  and  your 
wrinkled  yellow  forehead  shall  be  kissed,  let  us  hope, 
with  true  affection,  by  children  whom  poverty  does 
not  detain  far  away  at  relentless  labors.  Then,  when 
the  bright  fire  is  burning  in  the  grate,  and  the  lofty 
chamber  is  gay  with  sunshine,  you  shall  be  lifted  by 
strong  yet  gentle  arms  out  of  that  soft  recess  of  sleep, 
and  washed  and  swathed  and  brushed  and  combed 
till  you  revel  in  that  delightful  cleanliness  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  godliness,  but  is  the  most  precious 
result  of  wealth.  And  then  your  easy  chair  shall  be 
wheeled  over  the  velvet  floors  into  another  atmos- 
phere, fresh,  fragrant,  pure,  yet  warm  and  genial  as 
summer ;  and  there  shall  you  be  read  to,  or  talked  to, 
all  day  long,  as  you  will.  And,  lest  your  strength  fail, 
there  shall  be  delicate  dishes  provided  for  its  continual 
restoration,  and  the  most  precious  juices  of  the  grape 
shall  fire  your  thin  blood  with  their  sweet  stimulus. 
O  Dives,  Dives !  not  thus  is  your  poor  brother  at- 
tended at  his  levee. 

When  he  wakes,  what  then?  There  is  not  a  soul 
to  help  him.  He  is  eighty  years  old,  remember;  and 
at  that  age  one  may  chance  to  feel  a  little  tired  or 
faint  in  the  morning.  And  then  the  fire,  is  it  alive  yet 
under  the  heap  of  ashes,  or  has  it  gone  out?  That  is 
a  serious  question,  especially  in  winter  frost.  Well, 
by  chance  there  is  a  smouldering  yet  in  the  ashy  peats. 
And  now  for  the  breakfast.  The  old  man  dresses 
himself  with  trembling  hands.  Perhaps  he  is  not  over 
8 


ii4 


A  Friend  in  the  Desert. 


cleanly.  Perhaps  he  does  not  take  a  cold  bath  from 
head  to  foot  every  morning  as  you  do  ;  but,  in  truth, 
his  circumstances  are  not  so  favorable  to  that  health- 
giving  observance  as  yours  are,  my  dear  sir.  He 
would  have  to  fetch  the  water  from  the  stream,  and 
then,  where  is  the  sponge-bath  to  come  from?  Would 
you  have  him  flood  his  clay  floor,  and  make  a  puddle 
of  it?  And  then,  dirt  is  a  garment,  and  poor  folks, 
when  they  are  prudent,  don't  like  to  throw  it  aside 
until  they  can  afford  to  buy  another  to  supply  its 
place.  So  I  dare  say,  on  the  whole,  my  friend  dis- 
penses with  the  rite  of  ablution.  He  is  not  a  Mahom- 
etan Turk,  you  see,  but  a  Scot  and  a  Christian  ;  so 
washing  is  not  amongst  his  religious  duties. 

Yet  he  will  say  his  prayers  and  read  his  chapter  in 
the  old  Bible,  if,  perchance,  this  time  he  find  his  spec- 
tacles. And  as  for  the  wants  of  his  body,  there  will 
at  least  be  none  of  that  hesitation  in  the  choice  of 
dishes  which  may  perplex  your  old  stomach,  Mr. 
Dives ;  for  if  you  would  live  on  threepence-halfpenny 
a  day  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  there  is  only  one 
thing  for  you,  and  that  is  oatmeal.  Water,  of  course, 
you  may  have  (of  a  brown  color),  for  the  trouble  of 
fetching  it ;  and,  as  salt  is  cheap,  you  may  salt  your 
porridge  ;  but  to  porridge  you  are  bound  irrevocably. 
Porridge  three  times  a  day  for  a  year  makes  a  thou- 
sand repasts,  all  porridge  !  Old  Duncan  thanks  God 
humbly  and  sincerely  for  his  eighty-thousandth  basin 
of  that  delectable  aliment,  and  sits  down  on  the  untidy 
bed  with  his  old  brown  Bible. 

Now,  porridge,  as  I  take  it,  is  not  a  bad  thing  occa- 
sionally, with  plenty  of  thick  cream  ;  though,  for  my 
own  individual  organization,  I  find  it  rather  too  heat- 


A  Friend  in  the  Desert. 


"5 


ing,  and  not  supporting  enough  to  do  hard  work  upon  ; 
yet  the  most  fervent  believer  in  the  virtues  of  that 
over-extolled  mess,  oatmeal  porridge,  would,  I  fancy, 
demur  to  eighty  thousand  repetitions  of  it.  One  could 
smoke  eighty  thousand  good  cigars,  if  one  had  a  long 
life  to  do  it  in ;  but  eighty  thousand  messes  of  oat- 
meal porridge  —  a  southern  stomach  sickens  at  the 
thought ! 

And  if  that  judicious  old  Duncan  prefers  what  he 
gets  here  to  that  eternal  porridge,  little  do  I  blame 
him.  On  the  contrary,  I  applaud  his  taste  and  dis- 
cernment. And  if  I  fancy  that  he  may  relish  my 
society  as  much  as  the  society  of  his  clock,  I  hope  I 
do  not  flatter  myself  unwarrantably.  My  talk  may 
not  always  be  very  wise  or  very  good  talk,  but  there 
is,  at  any  rate,  more  variety  in  it  than  in  the  monoto- 
nous tick-tack  of  an  old  cheap  clock.  But  I  declare 
we  get  positively  intellectual  together  sometimes,  Dun- 
can and  I.  We  talk  about  London,  and  the  electric 
telegraph,  and  the  Leviathan,  and  Louis  Napoleon, 
and  other  vast  and  mighty  subjects.  I  believe  my  con- 
versations with  my  old  pauper  friend  are  a  great  deal 
more  interesting  than  much  of  the  talk  I  have  had  to 
do  at  rich  men's  feasts.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  it.  I 
do  not  pretend  that  we,  either  of  us,  threw  any  very 
bright  or  novel  light  on  the  subjects  we  touched  upon, 
but  we  were  both  in  earnest ;  he  entirely  interested  in 
the  talk,  and  I  in  him. 

Fancy  the  Isle  of  Inishail  on  a  glorious  summer's 
day,  the  camp  upon  it,  white  and  brilliant ;  on  the 
green  grass  in  front  of  the  tent  a  gray-headed  High- 
lander and  a  young  Englishman  sipping  their  coffee 
together ;  Mr.  Thursday  standing  a  little  way  off, 


Ii6  A  Friend  in  tJie  Desert. 

astonished  and  scandalized  at  so  unwarrantable  a 
degree  of  friendliness  towards  a  ragged  old  fellow, 
living  on  public  charity  —  "a  regular  common  beg- 
gar, for  he's  naut  else." 

Duncan.  —  Well,  sir,  and  they're  sayin'  noo  that 
London's  an  awfu'  big  toon ;  noo,  is  it  as  big  as 
Glasco'? 

The  Author.  —  Yes,  it's  six  times  as  big  as 
Glasgow. 

Duncan.  —  Sax  times  as  big  as  Glasco' ;  gosh  me  ! 
what  a  fearfu'  place  !  And  they're  sayin'  that  there's 
a  deal  o'  money  in  London,  and  all  these  rich  English 
shentlemen  come  frae  London,  and  I'm  thinkin'  it  must 
be  a  ter'ble  rich  place.  Mr.  Cool,  and  Mr.  Smith,  and 
the  Capt'n  that  was  with  them,  came  frae  London,  and 
I  hae  the  address  o'  Mr.  Smith's  hoose,  that  he  gave 
me,  ye  see,  and  I  wrote  tull  him  wi'  my  ain  hand,  and 
I'm  eighty-two  years  of  age. 

The  Author.  — Yes,  you  write  uncommonly  well 
for  your  age.    I've  seldom  seen  a  clearer  hand. 

Duncan.  —  An'  please,  Mr.  Hamerton,  can  ye  tell 
me  noo,  if  it's  true  what  they're  sayin',  that  the  letters 
are  goin'  frae  Glasco'  to  London  in  one  nicht.  They're 
sayin'  that  it's  the  railway  that  takes  them. 

The  Author. — Yes,  it's  quite  true.  I've  come 
from  London  to  Glasgow  myself  in  one  night,  in  the 
same  train  with  the  letters. 

Duncan. — It's  fearfu'  fast,  gosh  me,  gosh  me  !  An'  is 
it  true  that  they've  a  way  o'  sendin'  word  by  long  wires 
that  reach  frae  Glasco'  to  London?  They're  sayin' 
that  they're  sending  word  by  wires  instead  o'  letters. 

The  Author.  —  Yes,  you  mean  the  telegraph.  It's 


A  Friend  in  the  Desert. 


117 


quite  true.  But  Fm  afraid  I  cannot  make  you  under- 
stand it  very  well ;  indeed,  nobody  quite  understands 
it.  They  know  enough  about  it  to  make  it  act,  but 
not  enough  to  give  good  reasons  why  it  acts.  The 
news  is  sent,  as  you  know  already,  by  means  of 
wires. 

Duncan  {with  eagerness).  — An'  please,  Mr.  Ham- 
erton,  can  it  go  fast,  the  word  that  they're  sendin'  by 
the  wires? 

The  Author.  —  Yes,  very  fast  indeed  ;  a  great  deal 
faster  than  your  letter  to  Mr.  Smith,  and  that,  you 
know,  went  from  Glasgow  to  London  in  twelve  hours. 

Duncan.  —  Gosh  me,  gosh  me !  they  hae  great 
schoolin\  Gosh  me !  faster  than  my  letter  to  Mr. 
Smith,  that  went  frae  Glasco'  to  London  in  twelve 
hoors ! 

The  Author. — Yes,  ten  times  as  fast — twenty 
times  as  fast  —  a  hundred  times  as  fast ! 

Duncan  {astomtded) .  —  A  hunder  times  as  fast! 
Gosh  me !  gosh  me !  it  flies  on  the  wings  o'  the 
wind ! 

The  Author. —Yes,  you  may  say  so;  only  the 
wind  does  not  go  half  as  fast.  I've  sent  messages 
myself  that  have  gone  hundreds  of  miles  between  two 
ticks  of  your  clock  at  home.  The  messages  go  so  fast 
that  it  really  takes  no  time  at  all. 

Duncan.  —  Gosh  me !  and  they  didna  ken  hoo  it 
flies,  and  it  flies  sae  fast !  And  does  the  word  come 
right  as  ye  sent  it  ? 

The  Author.  —  Yes,  yes,  just  as  if  you  wrote  it  in 
a  letter. 

Duncan.  —  An'  please,  Mr.  Hamerton,  is  it  true 
what  they're  savin',  that  the  Emperor  o'  France  is 


n8  A  Friend  in  tJie  Desert. 

goin'  to  make  war  against  Scotland?    And  has  he  as 
large  an  army  as  they're  tellin'  ? 

The  Author.  —  He  has  a  very  large  army  indeed, 
but  I  don't  think  it  likely  that  we  shall  be  troubled 
with  it  over  here. 

From  the  Emperor  of  France,  Duncan  naturally 
diverged  to  the  Queen  of  England  ;  and  after  various 
minute  inquiries  respecting  her  Majesty's  personal 
appearance,  the  number  of  her  children,  the  size  of 
her  establishment,  and  the  extent  of  her  revenues,  we 
got  somehow  to  Balmoral,  and  thence  to  the  subject 
of  English  visitors  to  Scotland  in  general,  when  I 
asked  Duncan  what  he  thought  of  my  tents.  Duncan, 
wTith  much  tact,  replied  that  he  had  a  great  respect  for 
tents  and  for  them  who  dwelt  in  them  ;  and  when  I 
demanded,  in  some  surprise,  the  reason  for  so  unusual  m 
a  sentiment,  he  answered,  "  Because  the  Scriptur'  says 
that  Abraham  dwelt  in  a  tent." 


II9 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  LETTER  FROM  THE  AUTHOR  IN  PARIS  TO  A  FRIEND 
OF  HIS  IN  LANCASHIRE. 

Hotel  du  Louvre,  Paris. 

MY  dear   :  Why  I  should  write  to  you 
from  Paris  apropos  of  my  camp  in  the  High- 
lands you  will  learn  in  the  sequel,  if  you  will  have  a 
little  patience. 

I  have  an  anecdote  to  tell  you  of  something  wrhich 
amused  me  very  much  yesterday.  I  often  dine  at  the 
table  d'hote  in  the  hotel  here.  Yesterday,  during 
dinner,  I  thought  I  recognized  a  middle-aged  bachelor 
whom  I  saw  at  the  camp  last  year  under  rather  pecu- 
liar circumstances.  He  was  sitting  a  long  way  off, 
and  at  another  table.  You  know  that  immense  dining- 
room,  so  like  one  of  the  big  saloons  in  the  French 
palaces,  and  you  may  easily  understand  that  without  a 
telescope  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  recognize  an  ac- 
quaintance across  a  parquet  broader  than  many  a 
French  estate. 

After  dinner  I  got  into  conversation  with  two  or 
three  French  gentlemen  in  the  coffee-room,  and  as  we 
were  smoking  our  cigars,  I  found  out  that  my  middle- 
aged  Englishman  was  in  the  same  room,  looking  very 
hard  at  me  indeed.  Then  he  came  quite  close  to  me, 
that  he  might  listen  to  my  French,  and  get  to  know 
whether  I  were  an  Englishman  or  not.    I  knew  he 


120 


A  Letter  from  the  Author  in  Paris 


could  not  find  me  out ;  English  people  never  can  un- 
less I  choose  to  let  them,  and  so  I  went  on  with  some 
story  I  was  telling  without  apparently  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  my  English  friend,  being  too 
much  amused  with  the  idea  that  I  was  puzzling  him  ; 
but  not  having  any  desire  whatever  to  cut  his  ac- 
quaintance, which  I  meant  to  resume  when  it  suited 
me.  At  last  our  little  knot  broke  up,  and  I  was  left 
alone  with  the  Moniteur  and  the  Times  on  the  table, 
a  little  porcelain  dish  of  lucifer-matches,  and  my 
porcelain  cigar  tray,  in  which  still  lay,  temptingly,  a 
fresh  cigar.  In  lighting  this  I  felt  that  I  was  very 
keenly  observed,  and  so  took  care  to  choose  the 
Mo7titeur,  casting  a  glance  only  at  the  Tunes.  My 
English  friend  came  and  took  the  Times,  then  sat 
down  and  looked  at  me  over  it,  shielding  himself 
from  time  to  time  behind  his  newspaper.  At  last, 
after  a  hearty  stare  of  full  five  minutes,  which  I  bore 
like  an  Emperor  without  wincing,  he  laid  down  his 
paper  and  said,  "  Excuse  me,  sir,  are  you  an  English- 
man ?"  I  answered  in  English,  but  with  a  villanous 
French  accent,  that  "  I  had  not  the  honor  to  be  the 
compatriot  of  Monsieur." 

"  Anyhow,"  he  said,  "  you  understand  English?" 
I  answered,  with  much  embarrassment  and  hesitation, 
in  English  words,  but  with  French  idioms  and  a 
French  accent,  that  I  understood  English  very  well, 
though  I  could  not  speak  it.  On  this  my  English 
friend  began  his  story,  which  was  exactly  what  I 
wanted  him  to  do. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  most  wonderful 
instance  of  an  almost  perfect  resemblance  between  two 
people  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.    You  are  the  exact  dupli- 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire. 


121 


cate  of  a  young  Englishman  I  once  met  with  in  Scot- 
land under  very  singular  circumstances.  Come,  since 
you  understand  English,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the 
whole  story. 

"It  is  as  queer  an  adventure  as  you  ever  heard  of. 
I  am  fifty-seven  years  old,  and  what  you  call  rich  in 
France.  Nobody  was  ever  less  disposed  to  adventure. 
I  am  as  quiet  and  as  respectable  an  old  bachelor  as 
any  to  be  found  in  Cheltenham,  where  I  usually 
reside.  I  am  particularly  careful  of  my  health,  at 
least  since  my  great  attack  of  rheumatism,  which 
seized  me  in  December,  1845,  and  which  my  own 
prudence  has  kept  off  since  then. 

"  Every  year  I  take  a  tour.  I  have  been  up  the 
Rhine,  I  have  been  in  Switzerland,  and  I  would  have 
gone  to  Rome,  but  I  hate  Popery.  Some  friends  of 
mine  persuaded  me  in  the  year  1857  to  go  to  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland,  and,  having  no  particular 
reason  for  going  anywhere  else,  I  went. 

"  I  got  safely  enough  to  Inveraray,  and  thence  in  a 
pony-carriage  to  Dalmally.  Dalmally  is  a  very  pleas- 
ant little  place,  with  a  large,  comfortable  inn,  and  a 
church  conveniently  near.  They  told  me  there  was 
good  fishing  to  be  had  upon  Loch  Awe,  which  is  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  inn ;  so  I  resolved  to  stay 
at  Dalmally  some  weeks. 

"  T^he  day  of  my  arrival  was  a  Saturday.  Sunday 
I  spent  at  the  inn,  with  the  exception  of  those  hours 
which  I  passed  in  church.  On  Monday  morning  I 
set  out  for  the  lake.  The  hotel-keeper  told  me  there 
was  not  a  single  man  at  liberty  that  day,  all  his 
men  being  engaged  by  a  party  of  tourists  who  had 
set  out  on  a  pic-nic.    But  the  hotel-keeper  said  I 


122        A  Letter  from  the  Azithor  in  Paris 


might  take  one  of  his  boats,  which  I  should  find 
by  the  river-side. 

"  I  followed  the  River  Orchay  through  the  fields,  till 
I  came  to  Kilchurn  Castle.  After  spending  an  hour  in 
exploring  the  castle,  I  determined  to  venture  out  upon 
the  lake.  There  was  a  pleasant  breeze  from  the  east. 
So  I  let  the  boat  drift  quietly  before  the  breeze,  and 
fished  from  it,  but  did  not  catch  anything. 

"  The  wind  began  to  freshen,  and  when  I  had  got 
fairly  out  in  the  greatest  breadth  of  Loch  Awe,  I 
began  to  feel  very  hungry.  So  I  stopped  at  a  pretty 
little  island,  where  I  found  a  small  ruined  castle,  and 
ate  my  lunch  in  the  castle.  The  wind  began  to  blow 
very  much  stronger  then,  and  I  found,  on  looking  at 
my  watch,  that  I  had  idled  away  the  whole  day.  It 
was  late  to  begin  with  when  I  left  Dalmally,  and  I 
had  been  botanizing  all  the  way  down  to  Kilchurn 
Castle,  and  then  I  don't  know  how  much  time  I  had 
spent  at  the  castle  itself,  for  I  am  a  bit  of  an  anti- 
quarian ;  but  the  day  was  far  spent  when  I  had 
finished  my  luncheon  on  the  little  island. 

"  I  had  tied  my  boat  up  in  a  corner  very  nicely 
sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  so  I  found  it  safe  enough 
when  I  sought  for  it  again. 

"  I  got  out  into  the  middle  of  the  lake  and  pulled 
with  all  my  might,  but  could  not  get  fast  forward  on 
account  of  the  violence  of  the  wind.  After  rowing 
like  this  till  I  was  quite  tired,  I  began  to  see  that  I 
was  making  very  little  progress  indeed,  for  the  island 
where  I  had  lunched  was  still  not  three  hundred 
yards  astern. 

"  I  then  thought  that  if  I  could  get  to  either  shore 
so  as  to  walk  to  the  inn,  and  leave  the  boat  wherever 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  La?icashire.  123 


I  might  happen  to  land,  it  would  be  a  wise  thing  to 
do  ;  but  the  waves  were  by  this  time  terribly  high, 
and  as  soon  as  ever  I  tried  to  turn  the  boat  sideways 
to  the  wind,  a  great  wave  came  splashing  into  it, 
wetting  me  to  the  skin,  and  putting  a  great  deal  of 
water  into  the  boat.  Talk  of  the  sea  being  as  calm  as 
a  lake  !  the  sea  would  be  anything  but  pleasant  if  it 
were  always  as  rough  as  Loch  Awe  was  that  night. 

"  Though  I  am  a  prudent  old  bachelor  for  the  most 
part,  and  little  disposed  at  present  for  adventurous  ex- 
peditions, I  have  a  certain  amount  of  courage,  and 
have  served  in  the  volunteers  when  a  lad.  So  I  did  not 
lose  my  presence  of  mind  when  the  water  came  into 
the  boat,  but  tried  to  think  quietly  about  my  position. 

"  I  now  saw  how  needless  it  was  for  me  to  think  of 
getting  back  to  Kilchurn  ;  but  what  alarmed  me  more 
was  the  impossibility  of  rowing  to  the  shore  across 
such  stormy  waves.  So  with  all  my  prudence  I 
determined  to  take  my  chance  of  an  attack  of  rheu- 
matism, and  pass  the  night  on  a  large  island  that  lay 
about  a  mile  farther  down  the  lake  than  the  island 
where  I  had  landed,  but  in  such  a  position  that  I 
could  drift  down  to  it  without  crossing  the  waves 
at  all. 

"  So  I  drifted  very  carefully  with  the  boat  half  full 
of  water,  and  my  clothes  drenched,  looking  forward 
with  bitterness  of  soul  to  a  miserable  night  and  a  long 
attack  of  rheumatism  to  follow.  To  add  to  my  dis- 
comfort, a  terrible  shower  of  rain  came  on,  wetting 
such  of  my  clothes  as  the  spray  had  left  dry,  and, 
thus  forlorn  and  wretched,  I  drifted  on  to  the  shore 
of  the  island. 

"  About  twenty  yards  from  the  shore  the  boat  gave 


124        A  Letter  from  the  Author  in  Paris 

a  tremendous  thump  against  a  stone,  turned  her  side 
to  the  waves,  thumped  again  twice  or  three  times,  and 
was  filled  in  a  minute  by  the  breakers.  As  for  me, 
I  rolled  out  of  her  somehow,  and  stumbled  and 
floundered  about,  up  to  my  middle  in  water,  till  I 
got  ashore. 

"  6  Well,  but  the  boat,'  I  said  to  myself ;  6  something 
must  be  done  about  the  boat.' 

"  6  Hang  the  boat ! '  I  answered  myself ;  fi  what  do 
./care  about  the  boat?  a  five-pound  note  will  make  all 
right  when  I  get  back  to  the  inn.' 

"  '  Yes  ;  but  how  shall  I  get  back  to  the  inn?  Here 
am  I,  cast  ashore  on  a  desolate  island,  as  unhappy  a 
wretch  as  Robinson  Crusoe  himself,  and  I  cannot 
swim  ten  yards.  How  can  I  get  back  without  the 
•  boat?' 

"  But  the  boat  bumped  and  thumped  against  the 
stones,  and  knocked  a  great  hole  in  her  side  before 
ten  minutes  were  over ;  so  I  tried  to  think  no  more 
about  her,  and  turned  my  attention  to  the  subject  of 
dinner. 

"  The  subject  of  dinner  was  a  bitter  subject  for  me. 
No  one  enjoys  a  good  dinner  more  than  I  do.  I  have 
lived  six  months  in  Paris,  and  know  all  about  French 
dishes  except  their  names,  which  I  never  could  learn 
for  the  life  of  me.  But  I  am  a  good  judge  of  a  dinner, 
only  I  must  have  a  dinner  to  judge.  My  dinner  that 
night  on  the  island  seemed  like  one  of  those  wonder- 
ful assizes  one  hears  of  now  and  then,  where  the 
judge  comes  gravely  to  try  cases  and  there  are  no 
cases  to  be  tried. 

"  On  examining  such  materials  of  comfort  as  I  had 
about  me,  I  found  that  I  had  a  flask  of  brandy  half 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire.  125 

full,  a  box  containing  two  sandwiches,  wetted,  and  a 
cigar-case  not  badly  replenished.  But  my  matches 
were  all  thoroughly  damped,  and  would  not  burn. 
So  I  looked  at  the  cigars  with  a  bitter  feeling  of  their 
uselessness,  and  took  a  pull  at  the  brandy-flask  by  way 
of  consolation.  I  was  not  yet  sufficiently  reduced  to 
eat  the  wet  sandwiches  —  nor  my  shoes. 

"  I  found  a  little  wood  of  fir  trees  on  the  island,  and 
lay  down  in  it  with  such  miserable  sensations  as  I 
hope  I  may  never  experience  again  while  I  live.  I 
was  dreadfully  cold.  The  wind  howled  through  the 
little  wood  most  dismally,  and  the  rain,  which  pelted 
continually  against  the  fir  trees  over  my  head,  dropped 
from  them  upon  me  in  big  drops,  so  that  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  under  the  dropping  well  at  Knaresborough, 
in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a  beautiful  specimen  of 
petrifaction. 

"  I  wish  I  could  give  a  fair  notion  of  my  misery. 
When  one  is  really  and  truly  miserable,  as  I  was 
then,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  think  one  had  some 
chance  of  finding  sympathy  ;  but  nobody  will  sympa- 
thize with  an  old  bachelor  like  me.  I  have  told  this 
story  twenty  times,  and  people  always  laughed  at  me 
and  called  me  Robinson  Crusoe.  But  I  should  like 
to  see  them  in  such  a  position.  It  was  no  laughing 
matter  for  me.  It  became  very  serious  indeed  ;  and 
as  I  got  colder  and  colder  in  the  wood,  I  began  to 
feel  that  I  might  be  found  there  cold  and  dead  in  the 
morning,  like  the  babes  in  the  nursery  tale. 

"  I  took  another  pull  at  the  brandy.  I  tried  once 
more  to  light  a  cigar,  but  it  was  no  use  with  my  wet 
matches.  Then  I  tried  to  get  into  a  better  sheltered 
place,  and  found  a  few  branches  that  some  one  had 


126       A  Letter  from  the  Author  in  Paris 

cut  from  the  fir  trees,  and  with  them  made  myself  a 
sort  of  a  bed.  O,  how  sadly  I  thought  on  the  aches 
and  pains  I  might  have  to  suffer  for  that  night ! 

"  I  lay  thus  covered  up  with  pine  branches,  and  said 
my  prayers.  Then  I  tried  to  sleep,  and  I  believe  I  did 
sleep  some  time,  for  when  I  next  opened  my  eyes  all 
seemed  much  darker  than  before  ;  in  fact,  it  was  al- 
ready eleven  o'clock.  But  after  this  I  could  sleep  no 
more,  for  my  teeth  chattered  together  with  cold,  and  I 
was  as  stiff  as  a  corpse. 

"  There  was  nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  take  exer- 
cise ;  so  I  walked  out  of  the  wood  weary  and  stiff  as  I 
was,  and  made  my  way  to  the  shore.  There  was  light 
enough  to  distinguish  land  from  water,  and  I  stumbled 
along  over  the  stones  on  the  beach  till  I  came  to  a 
piece  of  drift-wood,  which  I  did  not  see  ;  so  I  fell  over 
it  and  hurt  my  knees.  When  I  picked  myself  up,  I 
walked  on  but  slowly,  and  soon  got  into  the  thick  of  a 
wilderness  of  fern  ;  but  I  knew  that  I  must  wralk  on  and 
on  to  keep  up  the  circulation.  The  rain  all  this  time 
never  ceased  at  all,  but  kept  hard  at  it,  pelting  at  me 
most  cruelly. 

"  Well,  I  stumbled  on  till  I  came  to  the  corner  of  a 
precipitous  rock  ;  and  on  turning  this  corner,  I  saw  the 
most  unexpected  and  astonishing  sight  that  ever  I  saw 
in  my  life. 

"  There  were  three  tents,  or  rather  two  tents  and  a 
hut,  all  in  a  line,  as  I  have  seen  the  tents  at  Chobham 
camp.  I  went  up  to  the  first  tent ;  there  was  nobody 
there  ;  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  a  good  fire  burning  in 
an  iron  grate.  The  grate  had  a  stove-pipe  for  a  chim- 
ney, which  went  through  a  hole  in  the  tent.  Now,  I 
could  not  have  resisted  this  chance  of  lighting  one  of 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire.  127 


my  cigars  if  I  must  have  been  transported  for  it  to 
Botany  Bay  the  next  morning  ;  so  I  crept  into  the  tent, 
and  lighted  my  cigar  at  the  fire. 

"  When  I  had  lighted  my  cigar  I  sat  down  to  warm 
my  hands,  which  were  fearfully  cold.  I  found  the  in- 
terior of  the  tent  comfortable  enough,  at  least  in  com- 
parison with  the  wood,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  be  in- 
habited regularly.  Some  peat  and  firewood  were  piled 
up  in  it,  and  a  frying-pan  left  on  the  ground  led  me  to 
suppose  that  it  served  as  a  kitchen  to  the  other  tents. 
The  tent  was  comfortably  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and 
I  enjoyed  the  good  fire.  Bright  as  the  fire  was,  how- 
ever, I  took  the  liberty  of  putting  another  peat  or  two 
upon  it,  and  then  I  believe  I  fell  asleep. 

"  When  I  awoke  I  found  myself  still  in  the  same 
place,  with  the  fire  very  low,  and  a  chill  feeling  in  my 
limbs,  on  account  of  my  wet  clothes.  Just  then  I  heard 
steps  approaching  the  tent,  and  a  voice  singing,  — 

c  In  the  days  we  went  a-gypsying 
A  long  time  ago.' 

In  a  minute  afterwards,  a  sharp,  active-looking  servant- 
man  came  into  the  tent.  On  seeing  me  he  stopped 
short  in  his  song,  and  started  very  violently,  staring  at 
me  without  saying  a  word.  So  I  told  him  that  I  had 
been  cast  ashore  on  the  island,  and  begged  leave  to 
warm  myself  at  the  fire.  Then  he  said  he  must  tell 
his  master,  and  so  left  me  to  myself  again. 

"  I  had  not  long  to  wait  before  he  returned,  and  his 
master  with  him.  His  master  was  a  young  man  of 
twenty-five,  with  a  beard  and  mustache,  and  a  pleas- 
ant, friendly  countenance.  He  shook  my  hand  as  if 
we  had  been  old  friends,  and  began  to  scold  me  for  not 


128       A  Letter  from  the  Author  in  Paris 


coming  straight  to  his  '  hut,'  as  he  called  it,  where  he 
said  I  must  have  some  supper  ;  then,  seeing  how  wet 
I  was,  '  But  first,'  he  said,  4  you  must  change  every- 
thing you  have  on.  Thursday,'  he  said  to  the  servant, 
'  put  out  a  suit  of  my  clothes,  with  flannels,  and  a  clean 
shirt  for  this  gentleman,  in  your  tent,  and  let  him  have 
a  hot  foot-bath.  Put  some  water  on  in  the  big  pan 
here  immediately.'  Then,  turning  to  me,  '  I  must 
apologize  for  putting  you  to  dress  in  my  servant's  tentr 
but  we  must  have  our  supper  in  mine,  and  he  will 
prepare  it  here.'  Then  he  led  the  way,  and  I  followed 
him  out  in  the  rain  to  the  next  tent.  I  found  it  a  very 
comfortable  place  indeed,  with  a  wooden  floor,  and 
low  wooden  walls,  and  a  stove  in  the  middle,  the 
stove-pipe  serving  as  a  tent-pole.  Here  the  servant 
laid  me  out  a  complete  suit  of  dry  clothes,  and,  having 
aired  the  shirt  and  flannels  at  the  stove,  and  put  me  a 
clean  comb  and  brush,  left  me  to  my  reflections. 

"  4  Well,  after  all,'  I  thought,  6  this  is  not  a  bad  end- 
ing to  my  adventure.  I'd  rather  be  here  than  in  the 
wood.  I  used  to  think  a  tent  a  very  poor  sort  of  a 
house  indeed  ;  but,  by  Jove,  I  shall  know  its  value  for 
the  future.'  Then,  looking  up  at  the  nice  striped  lin- 
ing of  the  servant's  tent,  I  thought,  as  I  heard  the  rain 
pelting  on  it  outside,  what  a  blessing  it  was  to  be  so 
well  sheltered. 

"  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was  in  a  dry  suit,  and 
sat  by  the  stove  waiting  for  the  servant  to  bring  my 
foot-bath.  I  had  not  long  to  wait ;  he  came  very  soon, 
and  gave  me  a  round  tin  foot-bath,  with  hot  water,  and 
a  clean  towel.  c  Please,  sir,'  he  said,  '  master  says  you 
had  better  not  eat  anything  if  you  can  wait  a  few  min- 
utes till  supper  is  ready  in  his  hut ;  but  if  you  are  very 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire.  129 


faint  he  will  send  you  some  whiskey.'  I  thanked  the 
lad  with  all  my  heart,  but  said  I  could  wait  cheerfully 
enough  ;  and  so  there  I  sat,  with  my  feet  in  the  warm 
bath,  and  my  body  in  dry  garments,  with  the  pleasant 
prospect  of  a  good  supper  before  me.  Then  the  ques- 
tion presented  itself  suddenly,  why  the  camp  should 
be  on  the  island  at  all.  Hitherto  it  had  seemed  to  be 
there  merely  for  my  accommodation  ;  but,  as  my  senses 
recovered  themselves  gradually,  under  the  pleasant  in- 
fluences of  surrounding  comforts,  I  began  to  speculate 
about  the  camp.  c  Anyhow,'  I  thought,  '  I  shall  get  to 
know  all  in  time.' 

"  The  servant-man  had  laid  by  my  side  clean  stock- 
ings and  a  pair  of  seal-skin  boots,  lined  with  white 
down.  I  had  just  encased  my  feet  in  these  delightful- 
ly soft  and  comfortable  boots  when  the  servant  came 
again  and  said,  c  Please,  sir,  supper 's  ready  ;  will  you 
come  this  way,  sir?'  Then  I  followed  him  to  the  hut, 
or  rather  walked  close  to  his  side,  for  he  held  up  an 
enormous  white  umbrella  to  shelter  me  from  the  rain  ; 
and  soon  I  found  myself  in  as  snug  a  little  box  as  one 
would  wish  to  see.  It  was  something  like  a  yacht's 
cabin.  The  walls  were  painted  white  and  hung  with 
beautiful  engravings,  except  where  green  curtains  con- 
cealed four  windows,  one  in  each  wall.  There  was  a 
little  fireplace,  too,  with  a  fire  in  it,  and  the  floor, 
which  was  of  wood,  and  elevated  to  a  considerable 
height  above  the  ground,  was  covered  with  a  dark  red 
carpet.  A  small  square  table  of  mahogany  stood  in 
the  middle  of  this  little  apartment,  with  a  cloth  laid  for 
supper  and  a  little  lamp  burning.  Two  chairs  were 
placed  opposite  to  each  other,  and  my  host,  having 
welcomed  me  afresh,  and  kindly  inquired  if  I  had 
9 


130       A  Letter  frofn  the  Author  in  Paris 

overcome  the  effects  of  the  cold,  took  one  of  the  two 
chairs  and  invited  me  to  take  the  other. 

"  I  believe  I  never  ha^d  a  merrier  supper  in  my  life. 
The  servant  brought  first  a  dish  of  red  lake  trout,  very 
well  cooked  indeed,  and  after  that  a  venison  cutlet. 
Then  we  had  coffee  and  cigars ;  my  host  smoking  in 
preference  a  seasoned  meerschaum,  evidently  an  old 
friend.  Then  he  would  have  me  narrate  the  history 
of  my  arrival  on  the  island,  but  when  I  came  to  that 
part  about  lying  down  under  the  trees  like  the  babes 
in  the  wood,  he  became  quite  grave,  and  said  I  might 
easily  have  died  there  if  I  had  slept  till  I  was  be- 
numbed ;  then  he  would  have  me  take  a  glass  of  toddy 
to  keep  off  the  bad  consequences  of  my  miserable 
hours  in  the  wood.  And  so  we  got  very  merry  in- 
deed. 

"  Then  I  thought  it  a  good  opportunity  of  getting  at 
the  purpose  of  the  camp,  why  it  was  there  at  all  on  the 
island ;  but  I  could  not  obtain  any  satisfactory  answer 
whatever,  and  was  left  to  ascribe  it  to  mere  whim,  or 
any  better  reason  that  I  could  find  out  for  myself. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  mystery  hanging  over  the  camp. 
Not  a  wTord  on  the  subject  could  be  got  out  of  my  host.* 
4  Never  mind,'  thought  I,  c  I  will  tip  the  servant  to- 
morrow morning,  and  so  get  to  know  all  about  it.' 

u  We  talked  about  all  sorts  of  things  ;  about  politics, 
and  Paris,  and  Louis  Napoleon  amongst  the  rest. 
That  led  me  to  think  you  must  be  my  host,  because 
he  seemed  familiar  with  Paris. 

"  After  that  we  talked  about  the  French  and  English 
military  camps,  and  then  I  began  to  fancy  my  host  was 
a  military  officer,  but  could  not  explain  to  my  own 
satisfaction  what  so  small  a  military  camp  could  mean. 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire.  131 

"  When  we  had  smoked,  I  don't  know  how  long,  my 
host  said,  4 1  beg  pardon  for  my  want  of  hospitality, 
but  you  must  really  go  to  bed  now ; '  and  without 
further  preface  he  called  for  his  servant,  who  removed 
everything  from  the  table  in  a  jiffy,  and  unscrewed  its 
legs  and  stowed  it  away,,  putting  the  lamp  and  other 
things  on  four  corner-shelves,  that  seemed  made  on 
purpose  for  such  services.  Then,  in  two  minutes 
more,  by  unrolling  a  hammock  that  was  strapped  up 
to  one  end  of  the  hut,  and  fastening  it  with  straps  to 
staples  in  the  other  end,  he  provided  me  with  a  bed. 
Then,  opening  a  sort  of  ottoman,  he  took  out  several 
bags  of  flannel  and  linen,  put  them  one  within  another, 
and  laid  them  on  the  stretched  hammock.  My  host 
then  explained  to  me  how  I  was  to  enter  with  much 
circumspection  the  innermost  of  these  bags,  and  so 
said,  '  Good  night/  and  left  me.  It  was  not  without 
some  difficulty  that  I  introduced  myself  into  the  bags  ; 
but  once  in,  I  felt  wonderfully  comfortable,  and  fell 
fast  asleep  in  a  minute. 

u  The  next  morning  was  gloriously  fine,  with  a 
brisk  breeze  from  the  old  quarter.  At  eight  o'clock 
my  host  knocked  at  the  hut  door,  and  told  me  that 
breakfast  was  ready.  We  breakfasted  outside  the  hut, 
in  the  open  air.  We  had  ham  and  eggs,  and  mutton- 
chops,  and  coffee.  After  breakfast  my  host  said,  c  I 
have  been  to  look  at  your  boat,  but  it  is  quite  useless 
for  the  present ;  you  must  let  me  put  you  over  in 
mine : '  and  so  we  went  down  to  the  beach,  where  my 
host  had  two  boats,  one  at  anchor  in  a  little  bay,  the 
other  drawn  up  on  the  sand. 

"  I  never  saw  such  queer  boats  in  my  life.  They 
were  something  like  flat  rafts,  being  merely  tin  tubes 


132        A  Letter  from  tJie  Author  in  Paris 


supporting  a  wooden  deck ;  but  my  host  assured  me 
they  were  perfectly  safe  ;  and,  indeed,  we  sailed  over 
very  pleasantly  on  the  larger  one.  All  this  time  I 
could  not  get  a  word  out  of  my  host  as  to  the  nature 
of  his  occupations,  or  his  object  in  living  in  camp. 
My  last  hope  was  in  the  rather  heavy  tip  I  reserved 
for  the  servant-man. 

"  Watching  my  opportunity  when  we  had  landed 
on  the  main  land,  I  slipped  half-a-crown  into  his  hand, 
and  then  asked  carelessly,  'Who  is  your  master?  and 
why  does  he  live  here  in  camp  ? '  But  the  servant  was 
a  Yorkshireman,  and  told  me  such  a  history  about  his 
master  and  himself  as  I  could  neither  make  head  nor 
tail  of ;  but  not  one  word  of  direct  answer  could  I  get 
out  of  the  lad. 

"  When  I  got  to  Dalmally,  I  asked  the  waiter  if  he 
knew.  My  host,  it  turned  out,  was  a  young  English- 
man, already  known  to  me  by  reputation  for  about  a 
week  before  I  saw  him,  as  the  author  of  a  poem  called 
6  The  Isles  of  Loch  Awe,'  which  I  bought  at  Inve- 
raray, as  I  was  going  to  see  Loch  Awe  itself,  and 
thought  I  might  as  well  know  something  about  it, 
though  it  was  only  poetry.  I  don't  think  he's  much 
of  a  poet.  He  seems  to  me  to  take  after  Wordsworth, 
and  the  lakers,  and  that  American  poet,  Tennyson  ; 
now  I  prefer  Lord  Byron  to  the  whole  lot  of  them. 
As  to  his  purpose  in  encamping,  it  seems  to  be  the 
study  of  landscape-painting.  I  know  nothing  about 
painting,  and  care  as  little  ;  but  I  have  learned  the 
value  of  a  tent,  and  shall  never  forget  the  lesson  as 
long  as  I  live." 

So  he  ended  his  history.  "  Well,"  said  I,  in  pure 
English,  "  I'm  very  glad  you  enjoyed  such  hospitality 
as  I  was  able  to  offer  you." 


to  a  Friend  of  his  in  Lancashire. 


133 


"  Begad  !  it's  you,  after  all !  "  exclaimed  he,  like  an 
Irishman.  u  I  could  not  believe  there  was  such  a 
duplicate  in  the  world,  and  I  couldn't  make  out  how 
one  of  those  horrid  foreigners  came  to  look  so  like  an 
Englishman  ;  but,"  added  he,  checking  himself  sud- 
denly, and  looking  rather  grave,  you  musn't  mind 
what  I  said  about  the  poetry  —  will  you?  I  dare  say 
it's  very  pretty :  I  don't  know  much  about  poetry ; 
you  must  excuse  me." 

"  No,  I  won't  excuse  you,"  I  answered,  laughing, 
"  for  you  have  been  guilty  of  a  bit  of  invention  your- 
self, and  invention,  you  k;now,  is  the  very  fountain  of 
poetry." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  I've  been  embellishing  a  bit? 
lipon  my  honor,  everything  happened  as  I've  told-  it. 
You  yourself  are  a  witness." 

"  It's  all  correct  but  the  cutlets.  You  said  they 
were  venison  ;  now  I  remember  distinctly  that  they 
were  nothing  but  plain  Scotch  mutton." 

On  this  my  friend  declared  that,  mutton  or  venison, 
they  had  saved  his  life,  and  he  meant  to  repay  them 
with  interest,  though  he  never  could  give  me  a  supper 
which  would  do  me  as  much  good  as  that  supper  did 
him.  However,  next  day  he  made  me  dine  with  him 
at  the  Trois  Freres  Provencaux,  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
and  invited  two  other  Englishmen  to  meet  me,  to 
whom  he  narrated  the  whole  adventure  over  again. 
The  dinner  was  something  wonderful,  and  the  bill 
tremendous,  but  he  paid  it  without  wincing. 


J34 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    ISLAND  FARM. 

ALL  who  have  read  the  beautiful  story  of  Undine 
must  remember  the  opening  lines. 
"  Several  hundred  years  have  probably  elapsed  since 
a  worthy  old  fisherman  sat  at  the  door  of  his  hut  on 
a  beautiful  evening,  mending  his  nets.  The  spot  of 
ground  on  which  his  dwelling  was  situated  was  ex- 
tremely picturesque.  The  emerald  turf  on  which  it 
was  built  extended  far  into  a  broad  lake  ;  and  to  an 
imaginative  mind  it  seemed  as  though  the  promon- 
tory, enamoured,  strove  with  all  its  force  to  penetrate 
into  the  beautifully  blue  limpid  stream  ;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  water,  actuated  by  mutual  passion,  en- 
deavored to  encircle  in  its  embrace  the  lovely  spot, 
with  its  undulating  grass  and  flowers,  its  waving  trees, 
and  •  cool  recesses.  The  one  was  impelled  towards 
the  other  with  almost  human  sympathy,  and  it  was 
natural,  each  was  so  beautiful." 

Not  less  beautiful  is  the  peninsula  of  Innistrynich, 
which  juts  into  Loch  Awe,  joined  to  the  main  land 
only  by  a  low  green  meadow,  submerged  when  the 
waters  rise.  I  have  chosen  this  place  as  a  kind  of 
depot  and  centre  of  operation,  and  taken  it  on  a  lease 
of  five  years. 

It  is  so  rich  in  fair  natural  pictures  that  I  shall 
probably  travel  very  little  for  the  next  year  or  two,  till 


The  Island  Farm. 


135 


I  have  painted  the  best  of  them.  The  old  hut  is  erected 
here,  and  will  be  moved  about  from  place  to  place  on 
the  island,  as  its  services  may  be  needed. 

The  island  rises  into  rounded  knolls  of  fair  pasture, 
with  green  park-like  glades,  and  great  stones  of  a  mar- 
vellous color,  rich  in  wonderful  lichens  and  mosses. 
There  is  one  noble  stone  in  particular  for  which  I 
have  the  friendliest  love  and  admiration,  and  which  I 
visit  every  day.  It  stands  about  twelve  feet  high,  and 
overhangs  like  a  leaning  tower.  It  is  covered  with  a 
perfect  mosaic  of  silver  and  purple  and  green.  The 
broad  spots  of  lichen  upon  it  seem  like  a  map  of  some 
unknown  archipelago.  How  many  thousand  years 
has  it  stood  there  whilst  those  silver  spots  have 
spread ! 

And  not  only  have  I  excellent  studies  of  stones  quite 
close  at  hand,  but  also  most  noble  studies  of  trees. 
There  is  no  better  place  on  Loch  Awe  than  this 
peninsula  for  rich  and  picturesque  foliage.  There  are 
some  magnificent  groups  of  oaks,  not  very  large,  it  is 
true,  but  not  the  less  grand  artistically.  These  little 
oaks  of  Innistrynich,  rooted  in  the  hollows  of  the 
rock,  and  nurtured  by  a  rude  climate,  are  as  magnifi- 
cent in  their  gray,  knotted,  ancient,  long-suffering 
hardihood,  as  a  Highland  bull,  though  short  in  stature, 
is  mighty  in  his  bold  bearing,  and  massive  build,  and 
black,  terrible  mane.  And  there  are  old  hollies,  cen- 
turies old,  not  pitiful  garden  shrubs,  but  strong  trees, 
whose  twisted  trunks  are  washed  by  storm-waves  in 
the  winter ;  and  there  are  venerable  thorn  trees,  that 
stand  in  the  spring  like  tall  hillocks  covered  with  the 
thick  snow  of  their  sweet  blossom.  Then  there  is  the 
mountain  ash,  clothed  with  scarlet  in  the  season,  when 


136 


The  IslctJid  Farm. 


his  million  berries  glow  like  heaped-up  beads  of  red 
coral.  And  there  are  delicate  little  birches  with  silver 
stems,  and  young  aspens  with  little  leaves  fluttering 
like  the  wings  of  butterflies  in  the  faint  breeze.  But 
high  above  the  oak  and  the  birch  tower  the  stately 
sycamores  and  firs,  and  there  are  two  or  three  great 
ash  trees  fit  for  a  king's  demesne. 

And  between  and  beyond  these  fair  and  stately  trees, 
and  through  the  intricate  trellises  of  their  leaves,  there 
are  yet  lovely  sights  to  be  seen.  You  cannot  walk 
twenty  yards  on  this  island  without  coming  upon  some 
new  and  striking  picture.  The  lake,  in  fine  weather 
intensely  blue,  shines  through  the  lower  branches,  and 
through  the  girdle  of  little  shrubs  round  the  shore  its 
tiny  waves  gleam  like  sapphires  ;  and  the  fair  moun- 
tains rise  beyond  it  with  green,  soft,  mysterious  sur- 
faces, and  delicate,  untraceable  edges,  against  the  soft 
blue  sky. 

And  then,  in  front  of  the  island,  at  the  extremity 
which  juts  the  farthest  into  the  lake,  there  is  a  little 
square  whitewashed  cottage,  with  a  veranda.  I  made 
it  a  condition,  when  I  agreed  to  take  the  island,  that 
four  of  the  windows  of  this  cottage,  those  belong- 
ing to  the  principal  rooms,  should  be  removed,  and 
replaced  with  fair  sheets  of  perfect  plate-glass.  They 
had  little  lozenge-shaped  panes  before,  which  no  student 
of  nature  could  tolerate  in  such  scenery.  The  invention 
of  plate-glass  is  one  for  wdiich  we  landscape-painters 
can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful.  I  heard  of  a  man 
the  other  day  who  put  a  thousand  pounds'  worth  of 
plate-glass  windows  into  his  house  all  at  once,  and  not 
only  that,  but  paid  the  bill  without  a  murmur.  I  sym- 
pathize with  that  man  —  I  honor  him  !    On  the  other 


The  Island  Farm. 


137 


hand,  I  hate  little  lozenge-shaped  panes,  no  bigger 
than  a  visiting  card,  that  cut  up  a  splendid  scene  into 
meaningless  fragments.  They  are  fit  only  for  churches 
and  schools,  where  nobody  ought  ever  to  think  of  look- 
ing out  of  the  window. 

My  cottage,  however,  is  a  complete  artistic  observa- 
tory. I  have  a  reach  of  lake  before  me  five  or  six 
miles  long  to  the  westward,  visible  through  two  of 
my  plate-glass  windows  ;  and  to  the  north  there  is 
Ben  Cruachan,  himself  visible  through  another.  So 
long  as  I  remain  in  the  house,  not  a  single  effect  of 
importance  on  those  broad  waters  and  mighty  moun- 
tain-side will  escape  me,  and  I  shall  obtain  a  compre- 
sive  series  of  memoranda,  including  effects  of  every 
season  of  the  year,  and  every  hour  of  the  day,  and 
every  state  of  the  atmosphere.  By  this  means,  watch- 
ing continually  the  changes  of  aspect  produced  in  a 
few  familiar  scenes  by  every  change  of  effect,  and 
taking  careful  notes  of  such  changes,  I  shall  solve  the 
most  perplexing  of  those  difficulties  which  baffled  me 
last  year,  and,  I  confidently  hope,  after  five  years  of 
such  constant  observation,  winter  and  summer,  here 
and  in  the  camp,  come  at  last  to  realize  my  ideal  of 
fidelity  in  landscape-painting. 

This  little  cottage  is  a  considerable  addition  to  my 
accommodation.  It  contains  twelve  habitable  rooms, 
each  about  ten  feet  square.  I  shall,  however,  require 
an  increase  in  my  establishment,  for  poor  Thursday, 
ingenious  as  he  is,  cannot  do  everything. 

And  there  is  a  farm,  too,  to  be  looked  after.  The 
island  contains  twenty-eight  acres  of  land,  which  will 
keep  me  a  horse,  and  a  couple  of  cows,  and  a  few 
sheep.    I  shall  make  a  good  garden  on  the  southern 


The  Island  Farm. 


slope  of  the  island,  from  the  house  to  the  shore  ;  there 
is  nothing  but  a  little  square  kailyard  now. 

I  have  put  a  Scotch  farm-servant  into  a  cottage  on 
the  island.  He  will  be  my  gardener,  and  go  to  In- 
veraray with  a  cart  for  supplies. 

With  the  garden,  and  easy  communication  with 
Inveraray,  I  hope  to  live  considerably  better  than  I 
did  last  year.  No  one  knows  the  utility  of  green 
vegetables  till  he  has  been  deprived  of  them.  I  got 
quite  out  of  health  last  year  for  want  of  such  common 
things  as  any  market  gardener  near  London  would 
supply  for  a  shilling  or  two,  rarities  utterly  unattain- 
able in  this  famous  county  of  Argyll,  except  by  actual- 
ly sowing  them  in  the  ground,  and  waiting  patiently 
till  they  grow. 

A  little  re-arrangement  has  wonderfully  increased 
the  utility  of  the  camp.  Hitherto  it  has  not  been  suffi- 
ciently portable  to  be  easily  removed  from  place  to 
place,  and  so  I  have  lost,  in  a  great  measure,  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  nomadic  life.  But  the  whole  camp  is 
now  quite  portable.  The  hut  is  erected  on  two  large 
wheels,  and  presents  a  striking  resemblance  to  a  bath- 
ing-machine, with  the  door  at  the  back  :  if  there  were 
a  good  beach  here  I  should  certainly  employ  it  in  that 
character,  as  well  as  for  artistic  purposes.  To  the  old 
wagon  is  now  added  a  convenient  box  or  body,  com- 
posed of  the  wooden  walls  of  Thursday's  hut,  and 
capable  of  containing  all  the  materials  necessary  to  a 
gypsy  expedition  —  tents,  boxes,  provisions,  &c.  Out- 
side this  body,  and  on  the  top  of  it,  are  seats  for  four 
persons,  like  those  in  a  dog  cart;  and  the  interior, 
being  lighted  by  two  small  windows,  affords,  when 
empty,  an  excellent  berth  for  Thursday.    My  travel- 


The  Island  Farm. 


!39 


ling  camp  will  consist  of  two  of  Edgington's  best 
travelling-tents,  with  strong  water-proof  floor-cloths. 
With  this  I  hope  to  make  several  extended  expedi- 
tions, but  for  the  present  shall  probably  confine  my- 
self to  the  work  immediately  around  me,  of  which 
there  is  a  bewildering  abundance. 

The  greatest  inconvenience  I  foresee  here  is  a  want 
of  out-buildings.  I  have  only  two  or  three  thatched 
constructions  —  they  look  like  old  cottages.  Lanca- 
shire people  have  a  passion  for  spacious  farm-build- 
ings, which  I  share  to  the  full,  because  space  is  always 
necessary  to  a  high  degree  of  order  and  cleanliness. 
It  is  quite  beneath  the  dignity  of  my  mare  to  be  lodged 
with  cows,  and  yet  there  is  no  other  place  for  her. 
However,  both  she  and  I  will  have  to  bear  with  little 
inconveniences,  and  I  am  happy  to  have  secured  so 
desirable  a  centre  for  the  execution  of  my  future  plans. 
I  shall  begin  first  by  working  near  home,  and  paint 
perhaps  a  dozen  pictures  of  scenes  within  five  minutes' 
walk  of  my  house  ;  then  I  shall  gradually  enlarge  the 
circle  of  my  labor,  till  it  reaches  a  diameter  of  about 
a  hundred  miles,  with  my  house  for  a  centre.  It  is 
probable,  therefore,  that  for  some  time  to  come  there 
will  be  no  matter  of  interest  to  narrate  in  these  pages, 
unless  it  be  an  occasional  excursion  to  a  distance  in 
order  to  keep  up  our  efficiency  in  the  practice  of  en- 
camping, and  to  prepare  us  for  the  last  two  years  of 
my  lease,  which  will  in  all  probability  be  exceedingly 
active,  as  the  circle  of  my  work  will  by  that  time  have 
enormously  expanded. 

For  such  a  purpose  as  mine  it  would  indeed  be  im- 
possible to  find  a  better  position  than  this  island  of 
Innistrynich,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  feel  myself  estab- 


140 


The  Island  Farm. 


lished  here  securely  for  five  years  of  uninterrupted 
observation,  during  which  the  proprietors,  in  the  ele- 
gant diction  of  the  lease,  "  have  bound  and  obliged 
their  respective  constituents,  and  their  heirs,  to  war- 
rant it  to  the  said  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton,  and  his 
foresaids,  at  all  hands  and  against  all  mortals."  These 
cautious  Scots  dare  not  warrant  the  island  to  me  against 
the  zV/zmortals,  that  is,  the  ghosts.  And  they  are  es- 
pecially precise  and  explicit  in  the  form  of  words  by 
which  they  make  me  bind  myself  to  leave  at  my  end 
of  the  lease  :  — 

"  And  the  said  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  bound  and 
obliged  himself  and  his  foresaids  to  flit  and  remove 
himself,  his  wife,  bairns,  family,  servants,  goods,  and 
gear,  forth  and  from  the  said  possession  at  the  expiry 
of  this  tack,  and  to  leave  the  same  void  and  redd  to 
the  effect  that  the  said  First  parties  or  their  foresaids, 
or  others  in  their  name,  may  then  enter  thereto,  and 
enjoy  the  same  in  all  time  thereafter." 


i4i 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  GYPSY  JOURNEY  TO  GLEN  COE. 

WE  have  had  a  wild  summer  here  this  year.  In 
England,  I  hear  it  has  been  glorious  and  golden, 
like  the  climate  of  Egypt.  In  France,  the  beautiful 
sun,  like  a  generous  host,  has  given,  without  stint  or 
limit,  the  rich  juice  of  a  vintage  unparalleled  in  its 
abundance,  so  that  the  laborers  in  the  vineyards  knew 
not  where  to  stow  the  overflow  of  wine,  and  put  it  in 
washing-tubs  and  cattle-troughs,  because  their  casks 
would  contain  no  more.  This  very  year,  in  the  un- 
favored mountains  of  Scotland,  the  peasant  could  not 
get  his  peat  for  the  winter  hearth,  nor  the  farmer  his 
little  crop  of  hay,  nor  his  poor  harvest  of  oats.  The 
peats  were  cut,  but  never  dried  ;  there  they  lay,  in 
little  miserable  mounds,  on  the  black  moor,  and  soaked 
and  rotted,  day  by  day,  till  all  the  virtue  was  soaked 
out  of  them.  The  thin  blades  of  corn  have  been 
levelled  by  the  wind,  as  though  cavalry  had  charged 
over  them  ;  and  farmers  have  deferred  their  hay  har- 
vest, in  the  bare  hope  of  a  little  sunshine,  till  the  dead 
leaves  lie  upon  it  now,  in  this  dreary  month  of  Novem- 
ber. I  suppose  they  will  cut  it  soon,  and  the  feeble 
sun  will  look  upon  it  languidly,  from  the  southern 
hills,  a  few  short  hours  by  day,  hardly  long  enough  to 
melt  the  hoar  frost  from  it. 

As  for  me,  my  farm  is  such  a  miniature  affair  that 


142 


A  Gypsy  yourney  to  Glen  Coe. 


I  made  my  hay  in  a  tolerably  fine  week  we  had  in  the 
summer,  and  got  it  all  safely  housed  in  my  little  barn. 
In  the  month  of  September,  one  fine  morning,  I  issued 
marching  orders,  and  set  forth  on  a  campaign. 

The  whole  of  my  insular  kingdom  was  instantly 
thrown  into  unwonted  commotion  by  the  promulga- 
tion of  these  commands.  Seven  fires  were  lighted, 
and  provisions  for  several  days  cooked  in  an  hour  or 
two.  A  terrible  sentence  thinned  the  poultry-yard, 
and  many  a  fine  cock  that  crowed  that  morning  in  the 
vigor  and  pride  of  youth,  lay  cooked  and  cold  in  a 
provision-box  far  away  on  the  morrow  !  My  gardener 
(an  excellent  butcher,  by  the  by,  a  very  desirable  quali- 
fication in  a  Highland  servant)  had  killed  a  sheep  the 
day  before  ;  so  we  had  plenty  of  mutton. 

We  started  with  the  wagon  at  sunset,  and  encamped 
that  night  in  Glen  Urchay.  I  occupied  one  of  Edging- 
ton's  tents,  and  Thursday  slept  in  the  wagon.  As  we 
were  pitching  the  tent  two  friends  of  mine  came  from 
the  hotel  at  Dalmally  to  see  me.  We  sat  talking  and 
smoking  till  two  in  the  morning,  when  my  friends  left 
me,  and  I  laced  the  tent  door,  having  first  looked  at 
Thursday  through  the  window  of  his  wagon,  where 
he  seemed  marvellously  comfortable,  and  at  poor  Meg, 
the  mare,  who  stood  tethered  hard  by  with  an  air  of 
perfect  resignation. 

And  yet  the  only  member  of  the  expedition  who 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  arrangements  for  the  night 
was  this  mare,  Meg,  whose  resigned  expression  had 
probably  been  assumed  to  mask  her  sinister  intentions. 
No  sooner  were  we  asleep  than  she  got  entangled  with 
her  tether,  and,  struggling  violently,  awoke  Thursday, 
who  went  to  her  assistance  with  his  lantern,  and  then 


A  Gypsy  journey  to  Glen  Coe.  143 


returned  as  fast  as  possible  to  his  cosy  berth  in  the 
wagon,  anticipating  no  further  interruption  to  his 
slumbers.  Delusive  hope  of  rest !  an  hour  later  Meg 
was  wandering  over  the  wild  moor,  and  Thursday 
stumbling  after  her  in  the  dark,  cursing  her  in  his 
heart. 

Now,  by  good  luck,  Thursday  caught  the  beast  after 
a  long  chase  ;  but  he  had  no  rope  to  make  a  halter  of, 
and  the  mare  had  left  hers  behind  her.  So  poor 
Thursday  was  obliged  to  take  Meg  by  the  forelock 
(as  in  the  days  of  our  youth  we  were  metaphorically 
recommended  to  catch  a  venerable  personification  of 
Time),  and  endeavor  to  persuade  her  to  return  quietly 
to  her  post.  Wandering  thus,  the  mare  led  Thursday, 
who,  of  course,  had  no  control  over  her  whatever,  to  a 
little  Highland  farmstead  ;  and  then  Thursday  called 
out  to  the  farmer,  and  pretended  he  had  led  the  mare, 
just  as  an  unhappy  king  or  prime  minister,  who  is 
dragged  by  a  perverse  nation  into  all  manner  of  diffi- 
culties, always  pretends  to  act  of  his  own  royal  will 
and  pleasure. 

"  Have  you  a  bit  of  rope?"  cries  Thursday. 

"  Na,  na  !  there's  nae  rope  about  the  hoose." 

"Have  you  a  bit  of  rope  for  sixpence?"  cries 
Thursday,  with  a  profound  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture. 

"  Weel,  weel,  maybe  there's  a  bit  o'  rope  ;  but  ye'll 
no  be  wanting  a  lang  ane." 

So  the  farmer  gave  Thursday  the  shabbiest  six- 
penny-worth of  old  rotten  cord  that  ever  was  bought 
and  sold,  and  Thursday  paid  for  it,  there  and  then, 
the  sum  of  sixpence,  on  his  own  responsibility. 

Then  Meg,  believing  herself  effectually  haltered 


144  ^  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 

(though  that  was  a  delusion),  followed  Thursday  very 
submissively  to  the  camp.  And,  during  the  rest  of  the 
night,  he  got  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  sleep  out  of  every 
half-hour,  like  the  man  who  walked  a  thousand  miles 
in  a  thousand  half-hours.  But  Meg,  the  mare,  slept 
not,  neither  did  she  slumber,  but  entangled  herself 
continually. 

The  next  morning  I  breakfasted  luxuriously  in  the 
tent,  and  after  breakfast  one  or  two  carriages  passed 
with  tourists.  I  may  observe  here  that  Thursday  is 
very  sensitive,  and  hates  tourists  on  account  of  their 
impertinent  manners ;  so  he  never  misses  an  opportu- 
nity of  irritating  himself  by  watching  these  contempt- 
uous travellers.  As  for  me,  I  calmly  proceed  with 
whatever  business  I  may  have  in  hand,  whether  eat- 
ing or  smoking,  or  even  the  low  and  degrading  occu- 
pation of  studying  from  nature,  without  particularly 
troubling  myself  about  the  giggling  companies  of 
snobs  who  infest  the  Highland  roads  at  a  certain 
season  of  the  year.  For  is  it  not  in  the  nature  of  the 
true  British  snob  on  his  travels  to  stare  at  all  things? 
I  should  as  soon  think  of  being  angry  with  the  owls 
in  the  Zoological  Gardens,  because  they  stared,  or  at 
the  monkeys  because  they  chattered,  as  at  the  noble 
animal  first  classified  by  the  celebrated  naturalist,  Mr. 
Thackeray,  for  acting  after  its  nature,  which  combines 
the  observation  of  the  owlet  and  the  eloquence  of 
the  ape. 

But  Thursday,  not  being  acquainted  with  the  writ- 
ings of  Mr.  Thackeray,  has  not  learned  to  see  the  snob 
on  his  amusing  side  ;  and  on  this  occasion  he  remarked 
to  me,  with  much  irritation,  in  what  a  very  contempt- 
uous way  these  tourists  had  stared  at  the  camp,  and 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


how  exceedingly  high  and  mighty  and  majestic  they 
seemed.  Why,  of  course  they  did.  It's  a  fine  thing 
to  ride  in  a  carriage  occasionally ;  and,  when  people 
aren't  used  to  it,  that  lofty  kind  of  locomotion  has  a 
certain  elevating  influence  on  their  sense  of  dignity ; 
and  I  am  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  say  a  word  against 
the  innocent  gratification  of  this  proper  pride,  especial- 
ly since  it  is  not  expensive,  but  may  be  freely  indulged 
in  for  ninepence  a  mile. 

During  the  day's  journey  we  had  a  good  opportu- 
nity of  admiring  that  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  which, 
instead  of  carrying  roads  through  valleys,  as  is  our 
more  modern  custom,  did  formerly,  in  order  to  give 
exercise  to  horses,  compel  these  animals  to  climb  and 
descend  the  sides  of  the  surrounding  hills.  It  would 
have  been  quite  possible  to  construct  a  road  in  the 
level  tract  at  the  foot  of  Ben  Loy,  but  the  engineer 
preferred  to  display  his  activity  by  leading  all  future 
travellers  a  very  fatiguing  race  over  the  inequalities  of 
the  mountain  opposite.  The  labor  wasted  in  the 
course  of  one  century  by  a  little  bad  civil  engineering 
at  the  first  planning  of  a  road  is  rather  startling  when 
wTe  think  of  it. 

We  were  descending  a  very  steep  declivity,  and  the 
mist  was  thick  in  the  valley.  Through  the  mist  came 
a  great  stream  down  from  the  opposite  mountain,  and 
we  saw  it  gleaming  below  us,  gray  and  dim,  like  a 
silent  stream  in  Ossian.  Then  we  looked  up,  and  the 
mist  broke  away  for  one  minute,  and  lo  !  toppling  over 
our  very  heads,  up,  up,  in  the  air,  like  an  eagle,  hung 
a  shapely  mass  of  something  we  knew  not,  something 
purple  and  gray,  mysteriously  marked  with  a  thousand 
scars,  and  spotted  with  a  thousand  shadows,  hanging 
10 


146 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


in  the  full  sunshine,  as  if  a  fragment  of  another  planet 
were  hovering  over  the  world  ;  for  it  seemed  of  solid 
rock,  and  yet  shapely  in  its  magnificence  ;  and  it  was 
wet,  and  glistening  as  with  recent  rain,  and  colored 
with  fair  hues,  like  the  mosaics  of  a  marble  dome  ! 

It  was  the  crest  of  Ben  Loy.  I  have  seen  Ben  Loy 
a  hundred  times,  but  never  like  that.  The  mist  had 
exaggerated  it,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  no  mortal  foot 
could  ever  wander  there.  It  did  not  belong  to  the 
world.    It  seemed  unearthly,  supernatural,  terrible. 

The  illusion  was  easily  accounted  for.  The  base 
seemed  remote  in  the  mist,  but  we  saw  the  stony  crest 
without  any  mist  whatever,  in  the  full,  clear  sunshine, 
so  that  it  seemed  quite  close  to  us  —  far  nearer  than 
the  stream  at  the  base.  It  came  upon  us,  too,  unex- 
pectedly.   Lord  Dufferin.has  recorded  a  similar  effect* 

Then  we  drove  through  a  long,  dreary  valley,  till  we 
came  to  Tyndrum,  where  I  had  hoped  to  increase  my 

*  "  Hour  after  hour  passed  by,  and  brought  no  change. 
Fitz  and  Sigurdr  —  who  had  begun  quite  to  disbelieve  in  the 
existence  of  the  island  — went  to  bed,  while  I  remained  pacing 
up  and  down  the  deck,  anxiously  questioning  each  quarter  of 
the  gray  canopy  that  enveloped  us.  At  last,  about  four  in  the 
morning,  I  fancied  some  change  was  going  to  take  place :  the 
heavy  wreaths  of  vapor  seemed  to  be  imperceptibly  separat- 
ing, and  in  a  few  minutes  more  the  solid  roof  of  gray  suddenly 
split  asunder,  and  I  beheld  through  the  gap,  thousands  of  feet 
overhead,  as  if  suspended  in  the  crystal  sky,  a  cone  of  illumi- 
nated snow."  —  Letters  from  High  Latitudes* 

This  effect  did  not,  however,  contain  the  contradiction  that 
astonished  me  before  Ben  Loy.  Lord  Dufferin  did  not  see  the 
base  of  Jan  Mayen  at  all.  Now,  I  did  see  the  base  of  Ben 
Loy,  removed  far  away  by  the  mist;  and  this  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  apparent  distance  of  the  base  and  the  nearness  of 
the  summit  made  the  effect  almost  incredible. 


A  Gypsy  yourney  to  Glen  Coe. 


147 


stock  of  provisions  ;  but  there  were  none  in  the  place, 
not  even  a  morsel  of  bread,  nor  an  egg.  I  saw  a  High- 
land boy,  however,  whose  admirable  beauty  would 
have  done  credit  to  any  palace  in  England  where  beef 
and  other  tissue-forming  materials  are  most  abundant. 
His  face  was  of  the  very  richest  coloring,  rather  dark 
in  complexion,  with  carnation  glowing  through  the 
brown.  He  was  a  precious  study  of  color.  I  think 
I  shall  invite  him  to  spend  a  week  at  Innistrynich,  and 
then  paint  a  few  oil-studies  of  him  from  nature.  How 
rich  was  that  dirty  tartan  of  his,  with  its  vivid,  soft 
colors  and  picturesque  texture  ;  and  how  well  formed 
his  bare  legs  below  the  kilt,  with  their  early  promise 
of  manly  strength,  and  the  lithe  suppleness  of  their 
boyish  grace !  Graceful  indeed  he  was,  as  a  young 
stag,  with  a  certain  shy  waywardness  in  his  attitude, 
as  he  leaned  against  the  rude  walls  of  his  father's  hut 
and  gazed  at  us  when  we  passed  by. 

As  we  approached  the  Black  Forest  the  lines  of  the 
hills  changed  their  character.  They  fell  in  grand  con- 
cave curves,  drawn  with  the  utmost  force  from  the 
summits  to  the  stream  down  in  the  glen  —  mighty  and 
majestic  curves,  so  simple  that  any  amateur  would 
think  he  could  draw  them,  and  yet  so  subtle,  that  the 
genius  never  lived  who  could  have  rendered  them  with 
absolute  accuracy.  On  our  left  was  a  frightful  preci- 
pice, and  as  Meg  trotted  down  the  steep  road  I  often 
congratulated  myself  on  her  steadiness  and  discretion. 
In  the  valley  below  there  was  a  vast  desolation  of  gray 
stones,  rolled  and  rounded  in  a  thousand  floods,  and 
spread  broadcast  over  the  barren  vale,  with  a  pure 
stream  picking  its  way  amongst  them. 

I  encamped  that  night  in  as  lonely  a  place  as  I  could 


148 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


find ;  and,  having  backed  the  wagon  down  on  the 
moorland,  tied  the  mare  to  it,  with  a  sheet  on  her  back 
to  keep  her  warm,  and  a  little  haycock  to  afford  her 
occupation  and  amusement.  An  hour  afterwards  we 
were  as  comfortable,  as  possible.  Thursday  had  got 
his  supper,  and  lay  asleep  on  the  wagon,  Meg  was 
busy  with  her  hay,  and  I  was  sitting  with  my  pipe 
after  dinner,  in  an  elysium  of  repose.  It  is  with 
especial  pleasure  that  I  recall  those  evenings  in  the 
tent.  When  the  fatigues  of  the  day  were  over,  and 
my  house  built  for  the  night,  with  the  buffalo-skins 
spread  over  the  thick  carpet,  candles  burning,  and 
smoke  curling  gracefully  in  long  wreaths  from  my 
brown  old  pipe  up  to  the  gabled  roof,  with  no  sound 
but  the  babbling  of  a  brook,  or  the  pattering  of  the 
rain,  I  felt  as  thoroughly  happy  as  our  poor  querulous 
human  nature  will  admit  of. 

There  is  the  finest  wood  of  Scotch  firs  at  Loch  Tulla 
that  I  have  yet  seen.  Near  Lord  Breadalbane's  ken- 
nels I  found  a  good  subject  for  Landseer  —  an  invalid 
deer-hound  that  had  been  gored  by  a  stag  at  bay. 

A  great  advantage  about  the  wagon  in  comparison 
with  the  public  coach  is,  that  I  can  stop  whenever  I 
want  to  take  a  sketch.  Thus,  during  the  whole  of  this 
pleasant  journey,  I  had  a  box  containing  sketching 
materials  close  to  me  on  the  roof  of  the  wagon  ;  and 
whenever  a  fine  mountain  outline  or  good  natural  com- 
position struck  me,  I  pulled  up  Meg,  who  soon  accus- 
tomed herself  to  these  intervals  of  repose,  and  drew 
very  much  at  my  ease,  where  I  sat,  on  the  box.  On 
a  coach  I  should  have  been  whirled  through  the  coun- 
try without  a  chance  of  sketching.  I  enjoy  this  sort 
of  pilgrimage,  especially  on  account  of  the  facility  of 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe.  149 


sleeping  wherever  I  will,  without  having  to  consider 
the  distance  from  the  inns.  In  ten  minutes  from  the 
time  I  pull  up,  I  can  have  a  house  ready  to  receive  me 
on  the  wildest  heath  ;  and  a  good,  serviceable  house, 
too,  weather-proof  and  warm.  This  is  delightful  for  a 
painter,  to  whom  nothing  is  more  tormenting  than 
prudential  considerations  about  eating  and  sleeping. 
As  for  me,  I  may  take  a  drawing  of  any  subject  I 
choose,  and  have  my  house  at  hand  when  it  is  done  ; 
and  whilst  I  am  busy  with  my  work,  Thursday,  an 
artist  no  less  earnest  in  his  own  line,  is  organizing  a 
repast  to  refresh. me  after  my  labors.  In  the  mean 
time,  envious  artists  pass  me  on  the  tops  of  coaches,  or 
on  foot,  compelled  by  absolute  necessity  to  dine  at  an 
inn  ten  miles  off;  and  very  likely  when  they  get  there 
they  will  have  to  post  on  another  ten  miles  to  sleep. 
The  coach  passed  us  in  the  Black  Forest,  when  I  was 
too  busy  to  look  at  the  passengers  ;  but  Thursday  suf- 
fered much  annoyance  from  their  uncivil  behavior. 
He  was  highly  indignant,  and  declared  the  travellers 
to  be  "  no  gentlefolks  ; "  but  they  were  a  fair  sample 
of  the  common  tourist  class,  no  worse  than  the  aver- 
age ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  most  of  them  would 
have  treated  me  with  great  respect  under  other  cir- 
cumstances, but  on  this  occasion  the  sketch-book  ex- 
cited their  contempt,  as  a  sketch-book  always  does, 
when  they  believe  the  holder  of  it  to  be  an  artist. 

In  trying  to  analyze  this  question,  so  as  to  find  out 
why  silly  people  invariably  behave  impertinently  when- 
ever they  see  a  painter  at  work,  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that,  independently  of  the  social  contempt  for  the 
artist,  which  the  best  modern  novelists  have  recognized 
as  a  characteristic  of  our  age,  there  is  another  reason, 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


less  obvious,  and  still  not  to  be  overlooked.  On  those 
occasions,  when  a  painter  is  annoyed  by  the  flippancy 
of  pleasure-seekers,  he  is  almost  invariably  the  only 
person  present  who  has  at  the  time  any  serious  thought 
or  occupation  whatever.  This  sense  of  non-conformity 
on  the  part  of  the  painter  to  the  humor  of  the  hour 
excites  instantaneously  in  the  spectators  a  disposition 
to  combine  against  him.  I  believe  any  seriously- 
occupied  student  would  have  to  put  up  with  similar 
interruptions  ;  but  it  is  fortunate  for  students  in  other 
pursuits  that  they  can  study  in  the  retirement  of  the 
closet.  Besides,  there  are  certain  things  which,  how- 
ever innocent  in  themselves,  appear  odd  and  incon- 
gruous whenever  a  third  party  comes  upon  the  scene  ; 
and,  as  Emerson  has  very  well  shown,  the  study  of 
nature  is  one  of  these  things.  No  one  but  a  landscape- 
painter  ever  dares  to  enjoy  nature  without  some  mask 
or  apology.  Other  people  seek  this  enjoyment  also  ; 
but  they  always  pretend  to  have  other  business  on 
foot,  either  shooting,  or  a  necessary  journey,  or  their 
health,  or  some  other  prosaic  every-day  excuse.  But 
the  painter  avows  his  object  frankly  ;  he  is,  indeed, 
forced  into  this  exceptional  frankness  by  the  circum- 
stances of  his  position  ;  for,  if  he  were  only  to  glance 
at  nature  furtively  when  out  on  other  business,  like 
the  rest  of  the  world,  he  would  never  come  to  produce 
good  pictures. 

When  the  coach  passed  me  I  was  hard  at  work  try- 
ing to  analyze  and  make  a  note  of  an  effect  of  rich, 
soft,  misty  moorland  color,  which  Linnell  has  rendered 
with  wonderful  veracity,  and  which  no  other  man,  so 
far  as  I  remember,  has  ever  yet  been  able  to  interpret 
at  all.    But  it  is  no  use  talking  about  it  here.    I  used 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


to  delude  myself  with  the  belief  that  words  recalling 
scenes  vividly  to  myself  which  I  had  studied  intensely 
in  nature  were  capable  of  producing  the  same  effect 
on  others.  I  forgot  that  to  render  vivid  an  impression 
once  made,  as  the  developing  solution  does  in  photog- 
raphy, is  quite  an  easy  thing  in  comparison  with  the 
object  I  proposed  to  myself ;  namely,  to  create,  the 
same  impression  in  minds  where  it  had  no  previous 
existence.  I  waste  very  little  time  in  description  now, 
because  I  find  words  quite  incapable  of  conveying  any 
idea  of  effects  of  color  and  light  to  persons  who  have 
not  seen  them,  and  have  come  to  discover  that  written 
language,  however  justly  chosen  and  carefully  fitted, 
must  always,  for  purposes  of  landscape-painting,  be  a 
very  clumsy  and  unmanageable  medium. 

So  we  will  say  no  more  about  this  effect,  though  in 
truth  I  look  upon  it  as  by  far  the  most  important  event 
of  the  whole  expedition. 

And  now  to  Glen  Coe.  Meg  had  three  miles  to 
trot  down  hill,  which  is  the  only  trotting  Meg  ever 
does.  Whenever  I  came  to  a  certain  angle  of  declivity, 
without  putting  on  the  break,  Meg  began  to  show 
symptoms  of  uneasiness,  going  first  to  one  side  and 
then  to  another,  till  at  last,  when  she  found  that  I 
neither  wanted  her  to  go  over  the  precipice  on  the 
one  hand  nor  to  break  her  neck  against  the  rock  on 
the  other,  Meg  prudently  decided  to  submit  to  the 
pressure  from  behind,  and  even  trot  a  little,  like  an 
unprogressive  government  with  public  opinion  at  its 
heels.  Then,  when  the  wagon  pressed  hard,  and 
seemed  to  get  heavier  and  heavier,  what  a  flurry  Meg 
would  get  into  !  till,  for  safety's  sake,  I  tightened  the 
break  on  the  hind  wheels,  and  so  relieved  her. 


A  Gypsy  yourney  to  Glen  Coe. 


I  fancy  the  scenery  of  Glen  Coe  approaches  nearer 
to  the  stony  Arabian  landscape  than  any  other  scenery 
in  Scotland,  for  the  mountains  have  a  barren  strength 
and  steepness  which  remind  one  continually  of  the 
stone  buttresses  of  Sinai,  as  we  have  seen  Sinai  in 
photographs  and  the  drawings  of  John  Lewis.  Glen 
Coe,  being  not  only  one  of  the  grandest  scenes  in 
Britain,  but  the  most  terrible  of  all  in  its  associations, 
deserves  a  closer  record  than  water-color  sketches  of 
misty  weather,  or  studio  pictures  done  from  hasty 
pencil  memoranda.  It  is  an  excellent  subject  for  pho- 
tography, but  no  photograph  can  give  its  color,  which 
is  delightful. 

I  was  fortunate  in  seeing  Glen  Coe  for  the  first  time 
under  a  noble  and  mysterious  effect,  for  the  whole  air 
was  full  of  mystery.  Far  below  us  stretched  a  valley 
that  seemed  of  supernatural  vastness,  whose  entrance 
wras  guarded  on  the  one  hand  by  a  wall  of  precipices, 
and  on  the  other  by  a  domed  tower  of  solid  granite, 
huge  and  pale  in  the  misty  air.  This  dome  gleamed 
all  over  with  purple  and  green,  changing  continually. 
It  wras  covered  with  a  network  of  irregular,  fantastic 
decoration,  a  wild  arabesque  of  faint  rose  color,  paler 
than  the  pale  green  ground  it  was  laid  upon.  This 
enchanted  dome  was  a  solid  rock  far  higher  than  St. 
Paul's,  and  its  mosaic  of  purple  and  green  and  rose 
color  was  only  the  little  patches  of  short  grass,  and 
red,  dry  channels  of  a  thousand  streams,  and  purple 
steps  of  precipice. 

But  in  the  vastness  of  the  valley,  over  the  dim, 
silver  stream  that  flowed  away  into  its  infinite  dis- 
tance, brooded  a  heavy  cloud,  stained  with  a  crimson 
hue,  as  if  the  innocent  blood  shed  there  rose  from  the 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


153 


earth  even  yet,  to  bear  witness  against  the  assassins 
who  gave  the  name  of  Glen  Coe  such  power  over  the 
hearts  of  men.  For  so  long  as  history  shall  be  read, 
and  treachery  hated,  that  name,  Glen  Coe,  shall  thrill 
mankind  with  undiminished  horror!  The  story  is  a 
century  old  now  ;  the  human  race  has  heard  it  talked 
over  for  a  hundred  years.  But  the  tale  is  as  fresh 
in  its  fearful  interest  as  the  latest  murder  in  the 
newspapers.  Kind  hospitality  was  never  so  cruelly 
requited  ;  British  soldiers  were  never  at  once  so 
cowardly  and  so  ferocious.  That  massacre  was  not 
warfare  ;  it  was  not  the  execution  of  justice  ;  it  was 
assassination  on  a  great  scale,  and  under  circumstances 
every  detail  of  which  adds  to  the  inexpressible  pain- 
fulness  of  the  fact.  It  is  lamentable  that  the  character 
of  William,  on  the  whole  respectable,  should  be  black- 
ened by  so  foul  a  stain. 

When  we  got  to  the  King's  House,  I  stopped  to 
drink  a  glass  of  beer,  not  in  honor  of  his  majesty, 
but  for  my  private  refreshment.  The  landlady  and 
hangers-on  evidently  expected  me  to  descend  from  the 
box,  send  Meg  to  the  stable,  and  order  dinner  and  two 
bed-rooms.  They  never  were  more  mistaken.  Their 
representations  of  the  distance  from  King's  House  to 
the  next  inn  were  quite  thrown  away  upon  a  wander- 
ing gypsy  like  me,  with  a  snug  tent  packed  up  inside 
his  wagon.  I  thanked  them  for  the  information,  paid 
for  the  two  glasses  of  beer,  and  trotted  on,  leaving  the 
astonished  landlady  and  her  staff  to  meditate  on  my 
cruelty  to  animals,  and  on  my  unaccountable  repug- 
nance to  a  night's  rest  in  the  royal  precincts.  Half  an 
hour  later  I  was  dining  comfortably  in  my  own  private 
hotel,  and  Meg,  unconscious  of  the  landlady's  tender 


i54 


A  Gypsy  yourney  to  Glen  Coe. 


sentiments  on  her  behalf,  was  dining  very  comfort- 
ably too. 

I  pitched  my  tent  by  the  side  of  a  little  stream,  and 
under  the  shadow  of  the  great  dome  of  rock  I  men- 
tioned before,  the  relative  position  of  my  tent  and  the 
dome  being  like  that  of  a  shop  in  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard and  the  dome  of  the  cathedral.  The  moon  rose 
behind  it,  and  one  or  two  splintered  pinnacles  of  rock 
came  sharply  against  her  light  in  a  black  silhouette. 
The  whole  scene  was  exceedingly  impressive,  from  its 
indescribable  desolation.  As  I  have  observed  before, 
it  is  of  course  in  such  desolate  situations  that  a  tent  or 
hut  seems  by  contrast  most  snug  and  cosy.  That 
night  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  I  was  busy  until 
very  late,  sensitizing  waxed  paper  for  photographic 
negatives  —  a  tiresome  process. 

The  next  day  was  very  windy  and  wild,  but  I  got  a 
study  in  pencil  and  two  photographs.  This  expedi- 
tion being  in  part  a  photographic  experiment,  I  men- 
tion these  negatives  here.  In  another  chapter  I  mean 
to  consider  the  whole  question  of  the  relation  between 
photography  and  painting,  and  the  ways  in  which 
photography  may  serve  a  painter  who  employs  it  for 
especial  purposes,  at  greater  length  than  I  can  here, 
in  a  parenthesis.  Having  had  occasion  to  spend  some 
time  in  Paris  last  winter,  I  had  profited  by  the  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  the  waxed  paper  process,  from  a 
pupil  and  assistant  of  Gustave  le  Gray,  who  invented 
it ;  and  during  my  journey  to  Glen  Coe  I  determined 
to  try  whether  its  convenience  in  travelling  was  as 
ample  a  compensation  for  the  comparative  imperfec- 
tion of  its  results  as  some  photographers  consider  it 
to  be. 


A  Gypsy  jfourney  to  Glen  Coe. 


'55 


The  second  night  in  Glen  Coe  was  wilder  and 
wetter  than  ever  ;  and  as  on  the  following  morning 
the  weather  seemed  to  have  settled  for  rain,  it  seemed 
wiser,  under  the  circumstances,  to  retreat  to  the  granite 
stream  in  the  Black  Forest,  where  I  had  some  draw- 
ings and  photographs  to  take,  as  that  position  would 
be  nearer  home,  and  we  were  only  provisioned  for  a 
week.  To  start  on  an  expedition  in  the  Highlands 
one  ought  to  be  provisioned  beforehand,  like  a  ship 
leaving  port.  In  order  to  lessen  the  consumption  of 
my  own  provisions  I  sometimes  stop  and  feed  at  an 
inn,  when  it  happens  to  be  convenient ;  but  it  is  not 
often  so,  on  account  of  my  work.  Innkeepers,  I  find, 
will  not  let  you  have  provisions,  except  in  the  shape 
of  orthodox  repasts,  unless  you  know  them  ;  and  as  the 
innkeepers  are  the  only  people  in  the  country  who 
have  either  fresh  meat  or  common  bread,  one  may  be 
temporarily  reduced  to  considerable  inconvenience  for 
supplies.  In  future  I  shall  act  upon  the  experience 
acquired  during  this  gypsy  expedition,  and  pay  greater 
attention  to  the  commissariat. 

I  find,  too,  that  Meg  is  not  strong  enough  for  the 
work  she  has  to  do  ;  so  on  a  future  expedition  I  must 
have  two  horses.  For  this  once  I  hired  a  leader  at 
the  King's  House,  to  climb  the  hill. 

I  pitched  my  tent,  then,  by  the  granite  stream.  It 
was  the  finest  study  of  granite  I  had  yet  found.  The 
clear  water  ran  swiftly  in  its  smoothly-polished  chan- 
nels, down  at  the  bottom  of  its  deep  and  narrow 
crevices.  And  the  color  of  the  rock  !  how  exquisite  ! 
Stern,  and  hard,  and  cold  as  it  was,  older  a  hundred 
times  than  the  Pyramids  or  the  Sphinx,  it  had  the 
hues  of  the  dawn  and  the  rose.    And  down  in  its  rjal- 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


lowed  basins  the  water  lay  clear  as  the  pale  green  sea, 
and  the  granite  seemed  to  glow  with  a  ruddier  hue 
when  it  rose  to  the  air  out  of  the  cold  waters,  as  if 
those  flames  lingered  in  its  substance  yet  that  made 
it  fluid  as  the  sea,  an  infinite  ocean  of  fire,  far  back 
in  the  immeasurable  past.  But  the  pale  gray  lichen 
spreads  on  it  now,  and  the  sweet  waters  flow  over  it, 
and  the  naked  foot  of  the  shepherd  treads  it,  and  the 
snows  of  winter  rest  upon  it  perennially  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  water  does  not  fly  off  in  hissing  clouds 
of  steam,  but  lies  still  in  the  polished  basins  ;  and  the 
bare  sole  of  the  shepherd's  foot  presses  it  unscathed, 
and  the  snow  melts  not  from  its  hollows  on  the  hills, 
for  the  great  globe  has  cooled,  like  a  cannon-ball  from 
the  casting. 

In  the  evening  the  weather  had  improved,  and  I  got 
a  few  photographs  on  the  papers  already  sensitized  at 
Glen  Coe.  It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night,  with 
a  sharp  frost.  During  the  night  I  got  up  very  often 
to  look  after  my  negatives,  which  were  developing 
slowly.  The  waxed-paper  process  is  tedious  and  un- 
satisfactory. In  the  morning  I  was  up  very  early 
photographing,  and  getting  color  memoranda.  I  de- 
veloped my  negatives  afterwards  on  my  road  home. 
I  found  that  one  was  really  valuable,  and  the  rest 
nearly  worthless. 

The  waxed-paper  process  is  in  one  respect  more 
striking  than  the  wet  collodion.  I  mean  it  its  prop- 
erty of  retaining  the  undeveloped  image.  When,  at 
the  end  of  my  day's  march,  far  from  the  scene  where  I 
had  exposed  the  papers  in  the  camera,  I  took  them 
from  my  portfolio  at  night,  I  often  gazed  long  and 
wonderingly  on  the  white  waxed  paper,  paper  as 


A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 


157 


blank  and  void  as  when  it  came  fresh  from  the  mill. 
Then  I  laid  each  in  the  bath,  ignorant  of  what  image 
would  come  there  ;  and  slowly  a  faint  chocolate  tinge 
appeared  here  and  there  on  the  white  surface,  and 
then,  amongst  the  strange  patches  of  brown,  a  pale, 
ghostly  image  became  dimly  visible,  the  phantom  of 
some  scene  I  had  passed  that  day,  and  this  pale  phan- 
tom-scene grew  more  and  more  defined,  but  with  all 
the  natural  conditions  reversed,  the  most  brilliant  light 
represented  by  the  intensest  black,  and  the  deepest 
points  of  shade  left  in  perfectly  stainless  paper,  over 
which  the  acid  brooded  powerless  ;  and  the  objects  at 
the  right  hand  were  changed  to  the  left,  and  still,  with 
all  this  reversal  of  natural  order,  how  marvellously 
truthful  those  images  were  as  they  seemed  to  rise  out 
of  the  paper,  and  fix  themselves  upon  it,  like  the 
magic  pictures  of  an  enchanter !  It  is  a  wonderful 
quality,  indeed,  of  this  sensitized  waxed  paper  that  it 
shall  retain  so  long  an  accurate  image,  utterly  invisi- 
ble !  There  is  a  strange  analogy  between  this  and  the 
action  of  the  memory.  The  image  is  impressed  on 
the  leaves  in  the  brain,  but  is  laid  aside  quite  blank 
in  the  portfolio.  Years  hence  some  circumstance  shall 
arise  that  shall  flood  that  forgotten  sheet  with  a  magi- 
cal developing  fluid,  and  the  images  shall  come  forth, 
as  those  wonderful  wTaters  flow  over  it,  clear  in  every 
detail,  till  we  shall  be  startled  and  frightened  at  its 
fidelity ! 

My  habit  of  stopping  to  sketch  on  the  road  pro- 
duced quite  a  little  collection  of  memoranda  —  things 
of  no  use  whatever  to  paint  from,  being  far  too  slight 
for  that,  yet  excellent  practice  in  their  way,  as  a  prep- 
aration for  sterner  mountain-drawing.     The  photo- 


158  A  Gypsy  Journey  to  Glen  Coe. 

graphs  I  find  to  be  practically  of  no  use.  I  might 
have  known  this  before,  if  I  would  have  condescended 
to  try  to  copy  one  ;  but  though  I  saw  no  harm  in  get- 
ting a  photographic  memorandum  of  something  I  had 
myself  seen  and  studied  in  nature,  I  had  determined 
in  my  own  mind  that  no  artist  could  wisely  copy  pho- 
tographs taken  by  other  people  of  places  he  had  never 
seen.*  This  distinction  always  appeared  to  me  very 
clear  indeed,  not  so  much  as  regarding  the  interest  of 
the  purchaser  of  the  picture  as  the  painter's  own  inter- 
est. Whoever  buys  a  picture  buys  it  with  his  eyes 
open,  and  it  is  his  own  fault  if  he  cannot  tell  whether 
it  is  good  or  worthless  without  being  told  the  history 
of  its  construction.  But  I  considered  that  a  painter  who 
painted  from  bought  photographs,  instead  of  studying 
nature  for  himself,  would  cheat  himself  out  of  the 
study  he  so  missed,  and  thus  be  by  far  the  greater  loser 
of  the  two. 

As  to  other  matters,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  a 
camp,  to  be  kept  in  the  highest  degree  of  efficiency, 
ought  to  be  systematically  provisioned,  because  the 
physical  work  of  everybody  out  in  camp  is  exceedingly 
heavy,  and  Englishmen  are  quite  worthless  without 

*  I  leave  this  just  as  it  was  written.  Subsequent  investiga- 
tion has  convinced  me  that  no  artist  should  ever  copy  a  photo- 
graph at  all,  though  most  artists  do,  more  or  less.  But  as 
memoranda  of  isolated  natural  facts,  photographs  are  invalu- 
able. By  seeking  only  for  one  fact  in  each  photograph,  you 
may  get,  in  a  large  collection,  a  rich  encyclopaedia  of  facts  of 
form.  In  this  way  the  photograph  is  very  useful  to  all  stu- 
dents of  nature ;  not  otherwise.  It  can  never  replace  good 
drawing,  and  is  valueless  for  pictorial  purposes,  on  account 
of  its  defective  scale  of  light,  and  its  false  translation  of  color 
into  shade.    I  will  explain  this  at  length  hereafter. 


A  Gypsy  yourney  to  Glen  Coe. 


159 


good  keep.  There  was  Thursday,  for  instance,  as 
strong  and  hearty  a  fellow  as  you  would  wish  to  see 
on  a  Lancashire  moor,  quite  knocked  up  at  the  end  of 
our  journey,  as  soon  as  the  cold  chicken  and  mutton- 
chops  ran  short ;  and,  as  to  a  painter,  his  work  from  na- 
ture is  in  itself  exceedingly  fatiguing,  and  the  slightest 
derangement  of  health  is  fatal  to  all  such  labor  as  that. 
After  a  little  more  experience,  when  my  plans  are 
definitively  arranged,  I  think  it  probable  that  I  shall 
reach  a  high  degree  of  efficiency  in  the  art  of  camp- 
life,  and  conduct  successfully  extended  expeditions. 
Already  we  are  far  sharper  and  livelier  than  we  used 
to  be. 

We  got  home  at  last,  quite  ravenous.  A  week's 
gypsying  is  good  for  the  appetite. 


i6o 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CONCERNING  MOONLIGHT  AND  OLD  CASTLES. 

SOME  of  the  prettiest  and  most  popular  lines  in  the 
"  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel "  are  the  well-known 
ones  in  which  the  tourist  who  would  see  fair  Melrose 
right  is  counselled  to 

"visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray." 

I  knew  all  Scott's  best  poetry  by  heart  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  these  lines  had,  I  remember,  an  especial 
charm  for  me  in  those  days.  I  did  not  perceive  then, 
what  I  know  now,  that  this  is  one  of  the  few  passages 
in  the  writings  of  Scott  in  which  the  color  is  false  and 
the  sentiment  affected.  The  ivory  and  silver  were 
very  pretty  in  the  poetry,  when  I  did  not  know  that 
Melrose  was  red,  and  the  preference  of  moonshine 
to  sunshine  highly  poetical  and  just,  before  I  knew 
that  the  Minstrel  was  so  little  in  earnest  on  the  subject 
as  never  to  have,  once  taken  the  trouble  to  drive  over 
from  Abbotsford  and  see  Melrose  for  himself,  as  he 
had  so  warmly  recommended  everybody  else  to  see  it ; 
whereas  I,  poor  enthusiast  as  I  was,  befooled  by  the 
Northern  Wizard,  had  put  myself  to  considerable  in- 
convenience to  do  his  bidding.  Still,  as  everything 
has  its  use,  this  disappointment  led  me  to  study  color 


Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles*  161 


in  moonlight  far  more  attentively  than  I  had  ever 
thought  of  doing  before.  Formerly  I  had  accepted, 
without  question,  the  popular  conception  of  moon- 
light —  the  colorless  ivory  and  ebony  ideal.  But 
Melrose  taught  me  much.  I  got  into  die  ruins  fur- 
tively, one  moonlight  night,  clambering  the  wall  with 
a  school-boy's  eagerness,  my  head  full  of  an  endless 
music  of  melodious  rhyme,  expecting  to  see  before 
me,  in  magnificent  reality,  a  vast  abbey,  whose 
imagery  was  edged  as  with  silver,  and  whose  but- 
tresses were  alternately  built  as  of  ebon  and  ivory  — 
a  fair  white  fane  standing  in  the  moonlight  like  a 
poet's  vision. 

Well,  it  was  very  beautiful,  certainly,  but  not  in  that 
way.  I  have  since  seen  the  sculptured  pavilions  of 
the  new  Louvre,  white  as  alabaster  in  the  full  moon, 
whilst  the  long  row  of  lighted  windows  in  the  dark 
old  Tuileries  told  of  an  imperial  festival  in  the  hall  of 
the  Ambassadors.  Silver  or  ivory  would  be  a  per- 
missible material  wherewith  to  construct  a  simile  if 
one  were  describing  this  moonlit  palace  of  new  white 
stone,  fresh  from  French  quarries,  just  carved  all  over 
by  sculptors  yet  alive.*  But  Melrose  never  looked 
like  ivory  at  its  newest,  still  less  so  many  centuries 
after  the  death  of  its  builders.  The  local  color  of 
Melrose  bears  a  closer  resemblance  to  common  Lon- 
don brick  than  to  ivory.    So  I,  poor  simple  youth, 

*  And  yet,  even  already,  this  is  no  longer  true.  At  the 
time  I  speak  of,  the  stone  was  only  just  carved,  the  scaffolding 
only  just  removed.  But  now,  when  I  copy  out  this  manuscript 
for  the  press,  the  new  Louvre  is  already  gray,  and  no  moon 
that  will  ever  shine  on  that  palace  henceforth  will  have  the 
power  of  again  realizing  Scott's  ideal  of  moonlight. 
II 


1 62     Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles. 


saw  my  illusion  destroyed  by  a  single  glance,  and 
have  remembered  ever  since  that  the  moon  respects 
local  color,  and  does  not  translate  everything  into 
black  and  white,  like  an  engraver. 

The  moon  respects  local  color,  yet  modifies  it. 
Other  changes  are  also  produced  by  the  transient 
color  and  condition  of  the  atmosphere  ;  so  that,  as 
in  all  art-criticism,  it  is  a  difficult  task  to  arrive  at 
any  positive  laws  which  can  be  stated  definitively 
in  words.  For  instance,  one  of  the  most  commonly 
known  laws  about  reflection  is,  that  the  reflection  of 
any  object  in  water  is  darker  than  the  object  itself; 
but  an  ignorant  person  who  had  found  this  law  in 
some  critical  work  would  inevitably  commit  himself 
if  he  attempted  to  apply  it  indiscriminately,  for  it 
often  happens  that  reflections  are  very  much  paler 
than  the  objects  reflected,  merely  because  there  is  a 
thin  stratum  of  mist  on  the  surface  of  the  water ;  and 
this  mist  may  be  so  thin,  and  lie  so  level  on  a  calm 
lake,  as  to  be  utterly  imperceptible  in  itself,  and  only 
recognizable  by  an  experienced  landscape-painter, 
on  account  of  the  refection  being  somewhat  paler 
than  usual. 

Moonlight  on  ruined  castles  and  glittering  lakes  is 
the  favorite  subject  of  the  very  worst  painters.  They 
paint  it  by  recipe.  I  have  seen  pictures  of  moonlight 
which  were  executed  in  a  London  picture  manufactory 
on  that  recognized  Commercial  principle  of  division  of 
labor  which  is  so  scientifically  applied  to  the  produc- 
tion of  a  pin.  I  was  informed  by  a  person  in  the 
secret  that  these  works  of  art  were,  each  of  them,  pro- 
duced by  a  series  of  workmen  —  a  draughtsman,  a 
dead-colorer,  a  man  for  details,  a  glazer,  a  scumbler, 


Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles,  163 


and  a  finisher.  The  result  of  their  successive  labors 
had  that  skilful  hardness  and  decision  peculiar  to  pure 
handicraft.  The  question  occurred  to  me  how  many 
of  these  mechanics  had  ever  seen  a  ruined  castle  by 
moonlight.  Theirs  was  the  ivory  and  ebony  ideal  — 
the  pianoforte  fingerboard  ideal,  as  one  may  say  — 
where  buttress  and  buttress  alternately  seem  framed 
of  ebon  and  ivory.  The  moon  shed  a  flood  of  light 
on  the  rippling  water,  broad  at  the  spectator's  feet, 
and  narrowing  itself  gradually  as  it  receded  to  a 
vanishing  point  in  the  distance,  according  to  the 
orthodox  laws  of  perspective,  and  in  direct  reversal 
of  the  facts  of  nature.  I  am  afraid  that  this  great 
modern  principle  of  the  division  of  labor  is,  after  all, 
better  applied  to  the  production  of  pins  than  pictures. 

Not  being  myself  willing  to  wreck  any  reputation  I 
might  hereafter  have  to  acquire  on  those  mysterious 
moonlit  waters  which  so  few  have  sailed  with  success, 
I  determined  long  ago  to  let  no  amount  of  personal 
inconvenience  prevent  me  from  studying  moonlight 
thoroughly  from  nature  ;  and  when  sober  people  are 
gone  to  bed,  and  the  moon  high  in  heaven  silvers  the 
broad  waters,  I  often  take  Thursday  with  me,  and  a 
solitary  white  sail  flies  all  night  long  from  island  to 
island,  a  lonely  wanderer  of  the  waves. 

I  always  take  a  note-book  with  me  on  these  oc- 
casions, and,  when  the  moonlight  is  not  strong  enough 
to  write  by,  have  a  little  lamp  on  deck  to  illumine  its 
pages  whilst  I  cover  them  with  hasty  memoranda. 
Then  the  next  day  I  try  to  approach  in  oil  color  the 
hues  I  have  studied  in  nature,  and,  after  many  ig- 
nominious failures,  am  just  now  beginning  to  see 
why  so  few  painters  can  manage  moonshine.  Grave 


164     Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles. 


gentlemen  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind  may  think 
these  midnight  voyages  very  silly  and  enthusiastic 
enterprises,  and  maids  who  love  the  moon  may  think 
them  very  romantic.  They  were  undertaken,  per- 
haps, with  an  artist's  enthusiasm  at  first,  and  since 
pursued  not  without  some  feelings  of  romance.  For 
art  cannot  be  attempted  successfully  without  strong 
enthusiasm,  nor  what  is  best  in  nature  felt  without 
some  sense  of  her  deep  and  intense  romance ;  but 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  is  an  illusion.  My  work 
from  nature  is  no  more  the  result  of  illusion  than  the 
work  of  any  other  naturalist.  The  art  of  landscape- 
painting  is  not  to  be  learned  within  brick  walls. 
When  I  am  out  with  my  memorandum-books  amongst 
these  islands  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  am 
working  just  as  hard  at  my  profession  as  a  London 
lawyer  at  his,  who  at  the  same  hour  is  immersed  in 
the  details  of  a  case  before  a  lamplighted  ocean  of  law 
papers.  Few  people  can  understand  this  now,  so  that 
I  always  expect  such  voyages  to  be  attributed  to  freak, 
which,  as  I  am  aware,  is  the  explanation  that  most 
readily  presents  itself  to  others,  and  is,  indeed,  very 
generally  adopted  by  my  friends  and  neighbors.  But 
people  will  understand  these  things  one  day,  when 
they  shall  come  to  perceive  that  true  art  is  not  a 
school-giiTs  pastime,  as  they  think  now,  but  a  man's 
pursuit,  which,  like  any  other  worthy  and  noble 
occupation,  requires  the  sternest  devotion  of  all  his 
energies. 

One  bright  evening  late  in  September,  I  set  out, 
after  dinner,  for  Kilchurn,  to  get  a  series  of  observa- 
tions on  moonlight  color ;  for  I  had  studied  Kilchurn 
closely  enough  to  remember  the  ordinary  daylight 


Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles.  165 

color  of  every  part  of  it.  Dugald  and  Thursday 
rowed,  for  the  water  was  like  glass.  Gradually  the 
exquisite  little  island  of  Fraoch  Elan  grew  larger  and 
larger,  and  then  detached  itself  from  its  twin  sister 
island,  and  the  two  dropped  gently  astern  like  islands 
in  a  panorama.  Then  companies  of  white  mists  in 
pillar-like  shapes,  about  as  tall  as  human  beings, 
glided  over  the  smooth  floor  of  water  like  a  proces- 
sion of  ghosts.  When  we  got  to  Kilchurn,  and  had 
safely  passed  the  bar  at  the  entrance  of  the  bay,  we 
floated  quietly  out  into  the  midst,  and  Kilchurn  stood 
before  us  in  the  full,  mellow  light  of  the  moon. 

A  shallow  mist  had  flooded  the  broad  pastures  by 
the  Orchay.  Gradually  it  crept  across  the  bay.  It 
was  not  above  a  foot  deep,  but  all  the  reflections 
turned  j)ale  suddenly.  Even  the  stars  themselves 
became  ruefully  wan  down  there  in  the  water,  and 
the  mountains  were  mere  ghosts  of  mountains. 

The  stones  of  the  masonry  were  all  distinctly  visible 
in  the  keep  of  Kilchurn,  and  the  color  just  as  various 
as  in  daylight,  only  every  tint  was  mixed  with  moon- 
gray.  The  grass  at  the  foot  was  of  a  grayish-green, 
glistening  with  dew.  There  was  very  little  purple  or 
blue  of  a  positive  kind,  though  a  true  picture  of  that  ■ 
scene  might  appear  bluish  by  contrast  with  pictures 
of  sunshine  if  hung  near  to  such  pictures  in  a  gallery, 
or  by  contrast  with  the  sunshine  itself,  as  it  plays  on 
the  warm  furniture  of  a  dining-room  ;  but  as  I  saw 
Kilchurn  then,  purple  or  blue  were  by  no  means  its 
pervading  colors.  The  sky,  which  was  intensely  deep 
and  clear,  was  of  a  blue-gray,  but  the  castle  was  all 
subdued  pale  greens  and  gray  gold.  The  shadows 
were  without  detail,  and  soft  in  outline ;  the  detail, 


1 66     Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles. 

where  visible,  seemed  more  mysterious  and  unintelligi- 
ble than  in  daylight,  but  not  less  abundant.  Every 
observation  I  find  in  the  note-book  I  took  with  me, 
and  every  sentence  scribbled  on  the  sketches  I  made 
that  night,  seem  like  hostile  criticisms  on  popular  pic- 
tures —  not,  however,  on  such  works  as  Turner's  little 
study  of  warm  moonlight  at  Millbank,  done  as  far  back 
as  1797  ;  nor  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  by  Mr.  Hughes; 
least  of  all  on  Landseer's  illustration  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream. 

Landing  under  the  keep,  I  walked  to  a  little  distance 
from  the  north-east  angle,  and  sat  down  there  to  watch 
the  changes  in  the  aspect  of  the  castle,  as  a  pure,  white 
mist  from  the  River  Orchay  became  gradually  denser. 
A  little  aspen  near  me  came  with  fairy-like  delicacy 
against  the  sky,  and  contrasted  well  with  the  massive 
breadth  of  the  keep.  No  detail  whatever  of  masonry 
was  visible  now  —  only  a  sort  of  gray  roughness.  The 
moon  shone  through  all  the  barrack  windows  (from 
the  inside,  for  there  was  no  roof),  and  corresponding 
spots  of  light  lay  in  their  places  in  the  great  shadow 
under  the  north  side.  Some  trees  at  the  west  end  re- 
ceded like  phantoms  into  vacancy.  The  whole  castle 
now  became  a  pale,  mighty  phantom,  and  certainly  I 
never  saw  it  under  a  more  poetic  aspect.  Londoners 
are  familiar  enough  with  effects  of  fog ;  but  rows  of 
hideous  brick  houses  seen  through  a  filthy  Thames 
miasma  do  not  take  that  hold  on  the  imagination  which 
I  confess  Kilchurn  conquered  over  mine  when  I  saw 
her  silent  towers  fading  away  like  a  dream  in  the 
moonlight,  as  the  pure  exhalations  of  the  Orchay 
gathered  in  a  great  white  cloud  around  her. 
*  The  legend  of  Kilchurn  is  very  beautiful  and  affect- 


Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles.  167 

ing ;  I  have  told  it  already  in  verse  (in  "  The  Isles  of 
Loch  Awe"),  and  cannot  repeat  it  here  in  prose. 
Legends  of  that  sort  are  scarcely  fit  for  prose,  which 
lets  the  sweet  essence  escape. 

The  old  castle,  like  most  old  buildings,  has*  been 
ruined  by  man,  and  not  by  time.  Henry  the  Eighth, 
Oliver  Cromwell,  blundering  stewards,  and  apathetic 
proprietors,  are  the  real  authors  of  most  of  the  ruins  in 
Britain.  With  a  little  friendly  care  and  attention  a 
strong  building  will  last  a  thousand  years,  but  a  fool 
will  demolish  it  in  a  day.  Kilchurn  is  a  ruin  merely 
because  an  economical  steward  thought  the  roof-timber 
would  come  in  very  well  for  the  new  castle  at  Tay- 
mouth,  and  so  carried  it  thither.  But  he  had  omitted 
to  measure  the  beams,  which  turned  out  to  be  too 
short,  and  therefore,  of  course,  useless.  Then,  when 
the  roof  was  off,  the  old  castle  became  a  general  stone 
quarry,  and  furnished  stones  ready  cut  to  all  the  farm- 
ers who  chose  to  steal  them.  And  the  new  inn  at 
Dalmally,  and  the  queer  little  sham  Gothic  church 
over  the  bridge,  being  erected  some  time  afterwards, 
the  now  ruined  castle  furnished  hewn  stones  to  both 
those  edifices.  There  is  not  a  fragment  of  wood  in  all 
Kilchurn  ;  there  is  not  one  step  left  there  of  all  its 
winding  stairs.  Yet,  in  the  forty-five,  the  building 
was  garrisoned  against  the  Prince  ;  and  in  the  latter 
end  of  the  last  century  there  were  tapestry  on  the  walls, 
and  wine  in  the  cellar,  and  a  casque  and  shirt  of  mail 
still  hung  on  the  walls  of  the  armory.  Alone  with 
these  relics  lingered  one  old  servant  as  housekeeper. 
She  was  the  last  inhabitant.  Some  domestics  might 
have  objected  to  the  situation.  Fancy  a  London  house- 
keeper shut  up  alone  in  a  great  ghostly  feudal  castle  on 


1 68     Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles. 


a  narrow  island  rock,  with  waves  roaring  round  it  in 
the  long  northern  winter  nights,  and  the  sobbing  wind 
flapping  the  figured  tapestry,  and  rattling  the  armor 
in  the  armory  !  Not  an  attractive  place,  certainly,  and 
scarcely  likely  to  suit  one  of  those  numerous  applicants 
whose  advertisements  crowd  the  columns  of  the  Times. 
I  think,  if  I  had  been  the  old  housekeeper,  I  should 
have  paid  frequent  visits  to  the  wine  cellar. 

Fifteen  miles  from  Kilchurn  is  the  little  island  of 
Anlhonnel,  with  its  sturdy  little  castle,  where  flie  great 
Campbells  lived  long  ago.  A  gentle  breeze  had  dis- 
persed the  vapor  that  gathered  round  Kilchurn,  and 
its  faithful  reflections  were  effaced  by  the  ripple  that 
gained  strength  every  minute  under  the  increasing 
wind.  It  was  only  half  past  ten  o'clock,  and  the 
temptation  to  sail  to  Ardhonnel  was  irresistible.  I 
took  a  little  boat  in  tow  at  Innistrynich,  filled  with 
camp  necessaries,  and  soon  sped  with  a  full  sail  before 
a  vigorous  breeze.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  on  deck  in 
a  buffalo-skin,  and  smoke  a  meditative  pipe,  as  I 
watched  the  moonlight  dancing  on  the  waves,  and  the 
changing  forms  of  the  mountains.  The  shores  were 
so  vague  and  mysterious  that  I  could  scarcely  see  a 
recognizable  detail,  and  yet  so  infinitely  full  and  rich 
that,  except  in  the  shadows,  there  was  nothing  like 
vacancy.  What  baffles  bad  painters  when  they  at- 
tempt moonlight  is  this  mystery  both  of  color  and 
form.  Color  is  subdued  in  moonlight ;  so  men  whose 
senses  are  dull  think  there  is  no  color  at  all :  detail  is 
confused  in  moonlight ;  so  they  think  there  is  no  detail. 
But  a  moonlight  picture  requires  just  as  much  paint- 
ing as  to  color,  and  drawing  as  to  form,  as  a  sunlight 
one.    The  hues  are  as  various  as  in  sunlight,  and  the 


Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  CastleS.  169 

detail  as  infinite,  only  the  hues  are  under  a  magic 
spell,  and  the  detail  thrown  into  an  inextricable  con- 
fusion. But  so  far  from  moonlight  being  easier  to 
paint  than  sunlight,  it  is,  if  possible,  more  difficult ; 
for  ten  men  can  paint  a  positive,  visible  fact  that  the 
eye  can  lay  hold  of,  for  one  man  who  can  render  the 
subtlety  of  that  mystery  which  the  imagination  alone  is 
qualified  to  apprehend. 

I  think  never  lover  doted  on  a  mistress  as  I  on  these 
landscapes.  I  am  never  tired  of  watching  them  ;  I  can 
never  have  enough.  Never  yet  have  I  been  able  to  go 
to  bed  on  a  bright  moonlight  night  without  a  secret 
pang,  as  if  it  were  a  sin  not  to  sit  forever  at  the  divine 
spectacle  ;  and  even  then  I  open  my  shutters,  that  the 
moon  may  look  into  my  room,  and  I  on  her  white 
clouds.  How  intense  and  deep  the  sky  is  around  her ! 
how  soft  are  the  white  exhalations !  And  as  one  is 
passing  before  her,  see  how  its  edge  burns  with  pale 
crimson  and  violet !  O,  who  shall  penetrate  the  eter- 
nal mystery  of  the  night?  what  poet  shall  ever  exhaust, 
what  painter  worthily  imitate,  its  splendors? 

Soon  after  midnight  we  found  ourselves  off  Port 
Sonachan  ;  but  it  was  three  in  the  morning  when  the 
boat  glided  under  the  shadow  of  Ardhonnel,  between 
the  castled  island  and  the  shore.  The  men  immedi- 
ately pitched  the  tents,  and  I  busied  myself  with  writ- 
ing observations  in  my  note-book,  intending  at  some 
future  period  to  paint  the  castle  as  I  saw  it  then.  The 
moon  was  golden  now,  and  near  her  setting  ;  she  hung 
over  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake,  and  laid  a  long, 
unquiet  path  of  light  across  it.  Her  warm,  low  light 
glanced  across  the  thick  ivy  on  the  castle  wall. 

Ardhonnel  is  an  exquisite  little  island.    There  is 


170     Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles. 

just  room  enough  upon  it  for  the  narrow  stronghold, 
and  no  more.  A  few  trees,  stately  in  form  and  heavy 
with  foliage,  stand  to  the  east  of  the  building,  and  the 
building  itself  is  covered  all  over  with  ivy.  In  the 
trees  there  dwells  a  colony  of  rooks,  and  in  the  ivy  an 
owl.  These  are  the  only  garrison  of  the  ancient  for- 
tress of  Argyll. 

My  tent  was  soon  ready  ;  so  when  the  moon  had  set 
I  shut  up  my  memorandum-book  and  went  to  bed ; 
that  is,  rolled  myself  up  in  a  buffalo-skin.  I  was  busy 
again  at  sunrise,  making  a  study  of  color  and  taking 
photographs.  Ardhonnel  is  magnificent  at  sunrise ; 
its  light-and-shade  is  so  powerful,  and  its  color  so  rich. 
When  the  massive  towers  are  relieved  thus  vigorously, 
and  reflected  in  every  detail  down  in  the  calm  water, 
it  is  one  of  the  most  effective  studies  in  the  Highlands. 

Long  ago,  when  Ardhonnel  was  a  strong  fortress 
full  of  warlike  men,  like  a  ship  of  war  anchored  for- 
ever in  an  inland  sea,  the  sentinel  pacing  the  bat- 
tlement at  sunset  fancied  he  heard  a  faint  cry  from 
the  mountains.  Very  likely  he  paused  a  minute  and 
looked  in  the  direction  of  Loch  Avich,  then,  hearing 
nothing  more,  resumed  his  measured  beat. 

An  hour  has  elapsed,  and  the  sun  has  set.  The 
sentinel  stops  again  suddenly ;  this  time,  too,  he  has 
heard  a  cry,  but  nearer  and  clearer  than  before,  and  so 
piteous,  that  he  is  thoroughly  interested  now. 

A  boat  leaves  the  island.  The -rowers  pull -vigor- 
ously across  the  lake.  Just  as  they  reach  the  mouth 
of  the  little  River  Avich,  which  flows  from  Loch  Avich 
down  to  Loch  Awe,  there  is  a  rush  of  men  in  the  green 
copse  as  of  hunters  after  their  prey. 

The  boat  scrapes  the  pebbles.    Out  of  the  copse 


Concerning  Moonlight  and  Old  Castles.  171 

rushes  a  beautiful  woman,  clad  like  a  chieftain's  wife. 
She  leaps  into  the  boat  and  falls  down  exhausted. 
The  rowers  push  off  instantly  ;  the  pursuers  reach  the 
shore  too  late.    The  lady  is  saved. 

"  'Tis  a  far  cry  to  Loch  Awe  !  "  said  the  sentinel  who 
had  saved  her. 

And  they  told  the  story  in  the  country  round  about, 
how  the  wife  of  Mac  Dougal  of  Lorn  had  fled  from 
her  husband  who  threatened  her  life,  and  how,  when 
she  came  to  the  hill  above  Loch  Avich,  whence  her 
father's  castle  of  Ardhonnel  first  became  visible  in  the 
far  distance,  she  had  cried  for  help  in  her  agony,  flee- 
ing before  her  pursuers.  Then  all  the  people  won- 
dered, and  thinking  that  no  earthly  power  had  brought 
her  cry  so  far,  they  said  one  to  another,  "  Far  is  the 
cry  to  Loch  Awe  !  " 

And  the  lady's  brother  went  out  to  the  Holy  War, 
and,  being  in  Egypt  on  his  way,  was  surrounded  by 
Saracens ;  so  he  cried  for  help.  But  one  of  his  com- 
panions sarcastically  quoted  the  common  saying,  "  Far 
is  the  cry  to  Loch  Awe  ! " 

And  another  chief  of  the  Campbells,  in  battle  in  the 
north  of  Scotland,  told  his  men  how  they  had  to  rely 
on  themselves  alone,  for,  said  he,  "  'Tis  a  far  cry  to 
Loch  Awe,  and  far  help  from  Cruachan  ! " 

So  the  saying  passed  into  a  proverb,  and  became  the 
watchword  of  the  clan  Campbell. 


173 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
1859. 

I WILL  not  trouble  the  reader  with  details  of  studies 
always  pursued  in  scenes  with  which  he  is  already 
familiar.  It  cannot  interest  anybody  to  know  the  in- 
significant details  of  an  uneventful  life.  I  have  had 
many  difficulties  to  contend  against,  which  may  lead, 
ultimately,  to  conclusions  of  some  value  to  others  who 
pursue  the  same  objects  ;  but  these  conclusions  cannot 
be  fully  stated  as  yet,  nor  in  this  place.  For  instance, 
with  regard  to  photography  in  its  relation  to  landscape- 
painting.  Nobody  has  ever  yet  answered  the  often- 
suggested  question  how  far  photography  may  be  useful 
to  the  landscape-painter ;  and  whether,  under  certain 
limitations,  he  can  wisely  practise  it  himself.  Nor  can 
I  answer  this  question  yet,  in  any  decisive  way.  I  have 
hitherto  only  practised  the  waxed-paper  process,  and 
cannot  speak  authoritatively  of  the  limitations  of  the 
wet  collodion.  Besides,  I  perceive  that  photographs 
taken  for  especial  purposes,  as  memoranda,  may  be 
useful  to  a  degree  which  as  yet  nobody  has  any  idea 
of,  for  such  photographs  are  not  to  be  had  in  the  mar- 
ket, where  they  would  be  unsalable,  except  to  artists. 

Again,  with  reference  to  the  study  of  nature,  I  dare 
not  as  yet  advance  definite  opinions,  because  my  object 
is  so  new,  that  the  experience  of  my  predecessors  is  of 
little  assistance,  except  in  merely  technical  matters. 


The  Pool  of  Death.  173 

For  instance,  Turner's  way  of  study,  good  for  an  ima- 
ginative painter,  is  not  exact  enough  for  a  topographic 
one  ;  just  as  in  literature,  the  degree  of  accuracy  in 
historical  facts  which  suffices  for  the  poet  or  the  nov- 
elist is  quite  unsatisfactory  to  the  historian.  On  the 
other  hand,  what  is  known  as  the  pre-Raphaelite 
system,  of  doing  all  from  nature,  is  obviously  inap- 
plicable to  transient  effects.  Between  these  two  some 
other  system  will  have  to  be  ultimately  traced  out,  and 
I  am  making  experiments  to  that  end,  which  include 
the  painting  of  a  good  many  pictures,  so  that  it  is  not 
likely  I  shall  be  able  for  some  time  to  offer  any  definite 
conclusions  on  this  subject  either.  In  the  mean  time, 
my  journeys  are  limited  to  twenty  miles  from  home. 

In  my  private  note-books  for  this  year  I  find  only 
two  passages  likely  to  interest  anybody  but  myself : 
the  first  is  a  description  of  a  beautiful  pool,  where 
two  young  men  were  drowned  when  bathing,  and 
the  other  an  account  of  the  coming  of  the  first  rain- 
clouds  across  the  Atlantic  after  the  long  drought, 
which  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  witness  from  the 
summit  of  Ben  Cruachan. 

THE  POOL  OF  DEATH. 

The  weather  here  is  terribly  hot  still.  I  have  ex- 
plored all  the  streams  in  the  neighborhood  in  search 
of  a  good  bath,  and  have  at  last  found  one.  It  is  five 
miles  from  here,  but  I  ride  that  distance  willingly  to 
enjoy  a  swim  in  its  clear,  sweet  waters. 

I  found  the  pool  out  by  accident.  Not  very  far 
from  Dalmally  a  little  stream  glides  under  the  road, 
as  it  slips  away  noiselessly  by  the  thick  hedgerows  till 


i74 


1859. 


it  buries  itself  finally  in  the  broad  Orchay.  A  few 
hundred  yards  higher  this  stream  passes  through  some 
of  the  very  richest  rock  scenery  I  know  anywhere. 
The  dell  is  dark  and  narrow.  The  slender  stream 
runs  under  and  over  huge  masses  of  rock  ;  but  there 
are  marks  on  those  masses  which  prove  the  force  of 
mightier  floods  —  holes,  broad,  deep,  and  regular, 
bored  as  smoothly  as  a  cannon's  mouth,  by  the  whirl- 
pools of  ten  thousand  winters.  After  studying  these 
exquisite  subjects  with  the  delight  of  a  painter  who 
has  loved  streams  since  childhood,  I  continued  to 
climb  higher,  and  came  at  last  quite  suddenly  on  the 
most  delicious  natural  bath  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  It 
was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  walls  of  perpen- 
dicular rock.  Over  one  of  these  walls  fell  the  whole 
stream  in  one  narrow  waterfall  of  intense  and  silvery 
whiteness.  The  pool  itself  was  deep  under  the  water- 
fall, and  the  bottom  rose  gradually  to  within  five  or 
six  feet  from  the  surface  ;  but  the  water  was  so  clear 
that  every  pebble  was  distinctly  visible. 

One  of  my  neighbors,  who  followed  a  little  behind, 
now  joined  me.  He  had  never  seen  the  pool  before, 
but  immediately  recollected  that  two  young  men  had 
been  drowned  there.  No  one  ever  died  in  a  more 
lovely  place.  One  could  easily  fancy  their  fair  young 
bodies,  pale  and  cold  as  marble,  lying  deep  under  the 
crystalline  waters  like  sunken  statues,  motionless,  when 
their  bereaved  friends  found  them,  some  bright  after- 
noon in  summer.  The  stream  fell  into  the  quiet  pool 
with  the  same  sweet  music  the  day  of  their  death,  no 
doubt.  The  blue  sky  canopied  them  with  a  color  as 
bright  and  gay,  the  merle  sang  over  them  in  the  silver 
birch,  and  nothing  in  Nature  mourned  for  them.  But 


The  Coming  of  the  Clouds. 


*75 


down  in  the  village,  one  or  two  dark  huts  were  darker 
and  sadder  that  night,  and  for  many  a  day  from  that 
date  the  murmur  of  the  unthinking  rivulet  must  have 
sounded  in  the  ear  of  the  mourner  like  the  confused 
mutterings  of  a  remorseful  murderer. 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  CLOUDS. 

The  summer  of  1859  wm*  l°ng  be  remembered  in 
the  Highlands  for  its  African  drought.  Towards  the 
middle  of  June,  the  thin  soil  was  parched  like  the 
desert  all  over  the  country ;  the  grass  was  baked 
brown  in  the  pastures,  the  cattle  were  dying  of  thirst ; 
water  was  carried  in  boats  from  the  main  land  to  the 
islands  in  the  wTestern  sea,  for  all  their  springs  were 
dry.  Dunoon  was  supplied  with  wrater  from  Gree- 
nock. The  crops  would  not  grow.  Day  after  day  the 
blazing  sun  stared  with  his  hot  eye  unveiled  upon  us. 
One  afternoon,  as  I  was  painting  from  nature,  I  had 
the  curiosity  to  ascertain  the  actual  heat  of  the  sun's 
rays  where  I  was  sitting  at  work,  and  found  it  to  be  a 
hundred  and  ten  degrees.  And  this  heat  lasted  for 
months.  Most  of  the  streams  were  dried  up  entirely, 
and  remained  mere  stony  beds,  giving  geological  evi- 
dence of  aqueous  action  at  some  indefinite  period  of 
the  earth's  history.  The  lake  receded  from  its  shores, 
and  shrank  daily  within  a  space  that  grew  narrower 
and  narrower,  till  the  inhabitants  of  Loch-Awe-side 
began  to  wonder  whether  their  loch  was  not  going  to 
evaporate  altogether.  At  last  a  day  came,  the  17th  of 
June,  so  ineffably  clear  and  brilliant  that  you  might 
see  every  stone  on  the  crests  of  the  highest  mountains, 
as  if  one  could  have  touched  them  by  stretching  out  a 


176 


1859. 


hand.  Aerial  perspective  was  annihilated.  The  eye, 
accustomed  to  the  broad,  well-defined  spaces  of  misty 
weather,  was  utterly  at  fault  in  judging  of  distance. 
Seen  from  Innistrynich  Island,  the  peak  of  Cruachan 
seemed  to  belong  to  Ben  Vorich  ;  yet  there  is  a  chasm 
between  them  two  thousand  feet  deep  and  two  miles 
across,  as  a  bird  flies.  I  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  climb  the  mountain  on  such  a  day. 

When  we  got  into  the  corrie,  I  was  more  and  more 
confirmed  in  the  hope  of  seeing  all  that  magnificent 
panorama  which,  on  rare  occasions,  is  visible  from 
the  summit  of  Ben  Cruachan.  The  rugged  outlines 
of  the  mountain  stood  clear  and  sharp  against  the 
deep  azure  of  the  sky ;  and  in  the  pastures  near  the 
summit  of  Ben  Vorich  every  stone  and  every  tuft  of 
grass  were  visible. 

At  last  we  gained  the  summit,  and  as  Thursday 
was  arranging  a  few  provisions  he  had  brought  in  his 
haversack,  I  adjusted  my  telescope  and  looked  round 
me.  In  the  south,  far  beyond  the  remotest  hills,  the 
blue  Lowland  plain  lifted  itself  to  the  sky.  I  saw  the 
great  expanse  of  Loch  Awe  glittering  in  the  bright 
sunshine.  There  was  not  a  detail  hidden.  The 
whole  valley  was  burning  and  parching,  as  it  had 
done  for  three  terrible  months,  except  where  the  nar- 
row lake  lay  wasting  in  its  stony  bed,  day  by  day. 

But  the  hour  of  deliverance  was  at  hand.  The  isles 
of  the  sea  were  darkened  by  a  gloom  of  vapor  that 
came  heavily  over  the  Atlantic.  Shining  clouds  of 
silvery  brilliance  were  built  like  glittering  domes  on 
the  peaks  of  the  thirsting  islands,  ready  to  melt  them- 
selves into  numberless  streams.  The  black  masses  of 
rain-cloud  behind  came  fast  over  the  sea-encircled 


The  Coming  of  tJie  Clouds. 


177 


mountains,  summit  after  summit  was  hidden,  island 
after  island  was  ingulfed  in  the  advancing  vapors. 
At  last  a  shred  of  white  mist  came  whirling  over  our 
heads  within  six  feet  of  us,  and  was  gone  with  the 
speed  of  an  eagle  in  wild  flight  over  the  abyss.  It 
was  the  pioneer  of  a  great  army  of  clouds  that  invaded 
the  shores  of  Scotland  beneficently  that  day. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  came  two  other  shreds  of 
mist,  whirling  and  tumbling  till  they  dashed  fairly 
against  the  sharp  peak  of  the  mountain,  and  then, 
gathering  themselves  together,  rushed  on  to  the  south. 
And  then  the  glittering  sea  became  dim,  and  the  sun 
himself  was  shorn  of  his  dazzling  rays,  and  looked 
through  the  mist  with  a  round,  white  face,  like  the 
moon's,  and  that  was  the  last  glimpse  we  had  of  him  ; 
for  in  a  few  seconds  the  whole  ocean  of  Atlantic  vapor 
was  upon  us,  tumbling  and  wreathing  itself,  and  tear- 
ing and  surging  with  mad  velocity,  till  it  overwhelmed 
the  whole  chain  of  the  Grampians  in  one  deluge  of 
gray  mist. 

The  view  by  this  time  being  strictly  confined  to 
half  a  dozen  gray  stones,  a  few  broken  bottles  (relics 
of  tourists  who,  not  having  the  fear  of  Ruskin  before 
their  eyes,  had  eaten  lunch  on  the  mountains  instead 
of  saying  their  prayers),  and  other  matters  of  familiar 
detail  of  a  like  interesting  nature,  I  determined  to 
descend,  which  we  could  still  do  with  perfect  safety, 
as  we  could  see  at  least  six  feet  before  us ;  which,  as 
Thursday  observed,  "  is  plenty  for  somebody  'at  isn't 
reight  gaumless." 


178 


CHAPTER  XV. 


I. 


BEN  CRUACIIAN  ON  A  DECEMBER  EVENING. 

LL  the  hills  are  thickly  covered  with  snow,  deli- 


-^A-  cately  finished  by  the  wind  as  a  sculptor  finishes 
a  statue.  Every  now  and  then  I  can  see  a  little  wreath 
of  what  looks  like  intensely  white  smoke  rising  into 
the  thin  evening  air  from  the  edge  of  the  great  preci- 
pice near  the  summit  of  Cruachan  ;  it  leaves  the  slope 
of  the  mountain  outline  rather  slowly  at  first,  then 
curls  itself  suddenly  and  vanishes  ;  it  flickers  like  a 
white  flame.  It  is  snow  carried  by  contending  whirl- 
winds ;  if  we  were  in  it,  we  should  be  blinded  by  it, 
and  think  it  rather  a  terrible  phenomenon.  From 
this  island  it  looks  like  a  little  silver  flame  cresting  the 
mountain  with  its  feathery  wreathing. 

The  sun  is  setting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake. 
Every  boss  on  the  mountain  casts  its  sharp  azure 
shadow  on  the  snow.  The  great  shoulder  of  the  hill 
throws  a  broad  shadow  into  the  deep  corrie.  It 
would  take  a  week  for  a  hard-working  artist  to  draw 
all  these  shadows  with  tolerable  accuracy.  I  am 
obliged  to  content  myself  with  a  hasty  sketch,  for  the 
sun  is  descending. 

At  this  moment  the  picture  is  perfect.  The  sky  has 
become  an  exquisite  pearly  green,  full  of  gradation. 


Highland  Landscape. 


179 


There  is  only  one  lonely  cloud,  and  that  has  come 
exactly  where  it  ought.  It  has  risen  just  behind  the 
summit  of  Cruachan,  and  pauses  there  like  the  golden 
disk  behind  a  saint's  white  head.  But  this  cloud  is 
rose-color,  with  a  swift  gradation  to  dark  purple-gray. 
Its  under  edge  is  sharply  smoothed  into  a  clearly-cut 
curve  by  the  wind  ;  the  upper  edge  floats  and  melts 
away  gradually  in  the  pale  green  air.  The  cloud  is 
shaped  rather  like  a  dolphin  with  its  tail  hidden  be- 
hind the  hill. 

The  sunlight  6n  all  the  hill,  but  especially  towards 
the  summit,  has  turned  from  mere  warm  light  to  a 
delicate,  definite  rose-color ;  the  shadows  are  more  in- 
tensely azure,  the  sky  of  a  deeper  green.  The  lake, 
which  is  perfectly  calm,  reflects  and  reverberates  all 
this  magnificence.  The  islands,  however,  are  below 
the  level  of  sunshine,  and  lie  dark  and  cold,  the  deep 
green  Scotch  firs  on  the  Black  Isles  telling  strongly 
against  the  snows  of  Craiganunie.  The  island  be- 
tween here  and  Ben  Cruachan  is  so  thinly  covered 
with  snow  that  the  dead  rusty  fern  shows  through. 

All  the  forest  on  the  steep  slopes  of  Cruachan  is 
dark  purple-gray. 

The  lake  shivers  here  and  there  where  the  cold 
north  wind  descends  upon  it.  Sheltered  by  the  moun- 
tains, the  rest  of  its  vast  floor  is  tranced  in  glassy  calm. 

II. 

LOCH  AWE  ON  A  MISTY  MORNING. 

All  the  lake  excessively  pale,  and  nearly  the  same 
color  as  the  sky,  which  is  one  sheet  of  tender  gray. 


i8o 


Highland  Landscape, 


Two  promontories  stand  opposite  each  other,  one  ter- 
minated by  a  domed  hill,  the  other  by  two  wooded 
islands. 

All  this  land  is  reflected  quite  accurately  in  the 
quiet  water,  the  only  difference  being,  that  the  double 
image  is  harder  in  the  air  above  than  in  the  water 
beneath. 

The  reflections  are  not  darker  than  the  reality,  be- 
cause the  thin  mist  coming  between  has  paled  them. 

Between  the  two  promontories  there  is  an  open 
space  of  water ;  nothing  is  visible  beyond  it.  There 
is  a  range  of  hills  in  reality,  whose  base  is  only  two 
miles  beyond  the  promontory,  but  they  are  totally  in- 
visible. The  lake,  therefore,  looks  infinite  and  very 
sublime. 

III. 

LOCH  AWE  AFTER  SUNSET,  OCTOBER  IO,  1859,  LOOK- 
ING TO  WHERE  THE  SUN  HAD  GONE  DOWN. 

The  lake  shore  is  all  massed  in  rich,  intense,  in- 
describable, deep  brownish  blackish  purplish  obscurity. 
There  is  not  one  detail  to  be  seen  in  it. 

The  distant  hills  on  the  left,  however,  rise  in  flat 

gray- 
Behind  all  this  there  is  a  great  dim  ash-colored 
cloud,  rising  very  high.  In  this  ashy  cloud  is  a  great 
rent  showing  golden-yellow  through  it,  like  the  dress 
of  a  disguised  princess  gleaming  through  a  beggar's 
rags. 

Far  above  this  yellow  rent  is  a  great  opening,  show- 
ing a  pale  green  sky,  and,  above  this,  barred  rain- 
cloud  of  a  dun  color,  illumined  by  soft  warm  light 
reverberated  from  the  hidden  gold  of  the  sky  below. 


Highland  Landscape, 


The  water  is  quite  calm  for  the  most  part,  but  about 
a  thousand  acres  of  it  are  just  now  slightly  rippled  by 
a  soft,  inaudible  breeze.  Wherever  this  breeze  is 
breathing,  the  reflections  are  of  course  effaced  ;  in  its 
stead  there  is  a  great  field  of  a  pale  ash-color  reflected 
from  the  cloud,  except  the  edges  of  the  field  under  the 
golem  rent  in  the  cloud,  which  take  a  narrow  border 
of  bright  yellow. 

But  in  the  middle  of  these  thousand  acres  of  breeze 
there  is  one  spot,  perhaps  in  reality  about  a  ^flindred 
yards  across,  which  the  breeze  has  not  touched  at  all : 
it  is  a  little  isle  of  enchanted  calm,  set  in  a  rippling  sea. 

There  is  also  a  promontory  of  calm,  about  three 
hundred  yards  long,  entering  boldly  into  the  midst 
of  the  breeze,  yet  resting  there  in  charmed  peace,  for 
the  moving  zephyr  leaps  over  it,  and  leaves  it,  as  if  it 
were  protected  by  some  supernatural  spell. 

What  the  reason  of  this  phenomenon  may  be  I 
leave  to  men  of  science.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  of 
a  satisfactory  solution,  but  could  scarcely  offer  one. 
What  becomes  of  the  lost  breeze?  Does  it  die,  or 
does  it  rise  ?  It  certainly  leaves  the  water  quite  un- 
touched. It  is,  however,  enough  for  me  as  an  artist 
that  the  fact  is  so.  If  I  were  to  paint  no  facts  but 
such  as  I  could  explain,  I  should  not  advance  far. 
And  these  mirrors  of  perfect  calm  inlaid  in  great  fields 
of  ripple,  are  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
phenomena  of  water,  so  that  I  cannot  help  painting 
them.  It  is  quite  incomprehensible  to  me  that  other 
painters  never  attempt  this  effect  at  all.  It  occurs  at 
least  fifty  days  in  every  year  on  all  our  great  lakes. 

Of  course  each  square  yard  of  calm  surface,  how- 
ever isolated,  reflects  its  own  portion  of  the  landscape, 


l82 


Highland  Landscape. 


just  as  if  all  the  rest  of  the  lake  were  calm.  I  have 
met  with  people  who  could  not,  for  the  lives  of  them, 
make  out  how  this  should  be.  It  is  for  the  same 
reason,  I  suppose,  which  makes  one  human  being 
sensitive  to  natural  truth,  and  all  the  crowd  round  him 
quite  incapable  of  receiving  it.  The  isolated  human 
soul  receives  nature  truly,  in  spite  of  the  opacity  of 
the  great  multitude  that  hems  him  in  on  every  side, 
but  cannot  disturb  his  guarded  calm  ;  the  isolated  mir- 
ror of  protected  water  reflects  the  land  quite  faithfully, 
though  the  millions  of  ripples  round  it  look  dull  and 
opaque  as  lead. 

I  have  often  gone  in  my  boat  on  purpose  to  examine 
these  isolated  calms.  I  have  found  them  sometimes 
no  bigger  than  the  floor  of  a  good  dining-room.  I 
have  crossed  lines  of  calm  as  narrow  as  the  lobbies  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  and  apparently  quite  as  well 
protected  against  the  wind.  The  fishermen  on  Loch 
Fyne,  who  have  observed  the  phenomenon,  account 
for  it  by  a  theory  that  it  is  produced  by  oil  rising  from 
fishes.  It  is  certain  that  the  thinnest  film  of  oil  will 
prevent  the  wind  from  rzcbbing  water  into  a  ripple, 
but  this  explanation  seems  to  me  quite  insufficient.  I 
believe  the  true  reason  is  to  be  sought  in  the  peculiar 
movements  of  light  breezes,  about  which  very  little  is 
known. 

When  I  put  these  things  in  my  pictures,  many  peo- 
ple, I  find,  will  not  believe  me,  as  if  a  painter  who 
had  planted  himself  for  five  years  on  an  island  in 
Loch  Awe,  for  the  express  purpose  of  studying  the 
phenomena  of  water,  might  not  be  supposed  to  know 
enough  of  the  subject  to  entitle  him  to  common 
credence. 


Highland  Landscape. 


183 


IV. 

LOCH    AWE    AFTER    SUNSET,    SEPTEMBER    23,  i860, 
LOOKING  TO  WHERE  THE  SUN  HAD  SET. 

A  line  of  low  hills,  with  great  woods  of  larch  and 
fir.  Behind  these,  purple  heather  hills,  ridge  behind 
ridge.  All  the  local  color,  which  is  very  rich,  is  sub- 
dued and  modified  by  gray. 

Above  the  hills  a  pale  green  aquamarine  sky  grad- 
uated to  pale  yellow  at  the  horizon.  A  cumulus  rises 
behind  the  hill,  and  the  cumulus  is  warm  gray,  edged 
all  round  with  burning  but  pale  gold.  Two  clouds 
above  lie  in  level  golden  lines,  full  of  light. 

The  water  is  most  of  it  rippled  pretty  strongly,  and 
this  ripple  is  all  of  a  cold  slaty  gray,  which  seems  to 
bear  no  relation  to  the  sky,  nor  to  anj'thing  else. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  strong  ripple  there  are 
spaces  of  an  acre  or  two  each,  which  are  just  dulled 
by  a  very  faint  breeze,  which  seems  independent  of 
the  other  and  stronger  breeze  that  causes  the  slate-gray 
ripple. 

Now,  these  little  dull  calms  reflect  the  sky  perfectly, 
and  they  are  so  placed  that  if  they  were  glassy  calms 
they  would  reflect  the  dark  hills. 

These  little  dull  calms  reflect,  as  I  said,  the  sky ;  con- 
sequently they  are  paler  than  the  surrounding  slate- 
gray  ripple. 

To  complete  the  picture,  we  have  a  space,  which  in 
reality  is  about  a  hundred  yards  by  fifty,  of  perfect, 
glassy  calm,  unruffled  by  the  lightest  breath  of  air,  yet 
surrou?zded  entirely  by  a  breeze. 


184 


Highland  Landscape. 


This  streak  reflects  a  portion  of  the  heather  hills, 
and  is  consequently  very  dark  and  very  rich  in  color. 
What  is  very  curious  about  it  is  the  exquisitely  beauti- 
ful golden  edging,  quite  narrow,  that  runs  nearly  round 
it  like  a  delicate  golden  binding  round  a  piece  of  dark 
brown  velvet,  only  the  edging  here  is  softly  gradated. 
This  golden  edging  comes  from  the  bright  clouds. 

Why  all  this  should  be  I  cannot  quite  positively  ex- 
plain. What  makes  the  very  narrow  line  between  a 
glassy  calm  and  a  breeze  reflect  the  intensest  color  it 
can  find  in  the  sky,  so  as  to  border  the  dark  calm  so 
artistically,  is  more  than  I  undertake  to  find  reasons 
for.  But  I  paint  this  truth  without  hesitation,  because 
I  have  seen  it. 

V. 

CRAIGANUNIE  AFTER  SUNSET,  JULY  1 5,   1 858. 

The  mountain  is  green-gray,  colder  and  greener 
towards  the  summit.  All  details  of  field  and  wood 
are  dimly  visible.  Two  islands  nearer  me  are  distinct 
against  the  hill,  but  their  foliage  seems  black,  and  no 
details  are  visible  in  them. 

The  sky  is  all  clouded  over.  From  the  horizon  to 
the  zenith  it  is  one  veil  of  formless  vapor. 

At  the  zenith  it  is  of  a  cold  gray-slate  color ;  but 
lower  down  it  becomes  violet,  dashed  all  over  with 
soft  wavy  plumes  of  glowing  crimson  flame,  as  if  it 
had  really  taken  fire  and  were  burning  underneath 
like  the  rafters  of  a  burning  hall. 

The  water  is  wonderfully  elaborate.  There  is  one 
streak  of  dead  calm,  which  reflects  the  green  mountain 
perfectly  from  edge  to  edge  of  it.    There  is  another 


Highland  Landscape. 


185 


calm  shaped  like  a  great  river,  which  is  all  green, 
touched  with  crimson.  Besides  these  there  are  deli- 
cate half  calms,  just  dulled  over  with  faint  breathings 
of  the  evening  air  ;  these,  for  the  most  part,  being  vio- 
let (from  the  sky),  except  at  a  distance,  where  they 
take  a  deep  crimson  ;  and  there  is  one  piece  of  crim- 
son calm  near  me  set  between  a  faint  violet  breeze 
and  a  calm  of  a  different  violet.  There  are  one  or  two 
breezes  sufficiently  strong  to  cause  ripple,  and  these 
rippled  spaces  take  the  dull  gray  slate  of  the  upper 
sky. 

Realize  this  picture  as  well  as  you  may  be  able,  and 
then  put  in  the  final  touch.  Between  the  dull  calms 
and  the  glassy  calms  there  are  drawn  thin  threads  of 
division  burning  with  scarlet  fire. 

This  fire  is  of  course  got  from  the  lower  sky.  I 
know  whence  it  comes,  but  how  or  why  it  lies  in  those 
thin  scarlet  threads  there,  where  it  is  most  wanted, 
and  not  elsewhere,  I  cannot  satisfactorily  explain.  I 
offer  the  following,  however,  as  a  solution  :  — 

A  miniature  swell  is  produced  at  the  edge  of  the  calm 
water  by  the  neighboring  ripple.  This  swell  consists 
of  low,  long  wavelets,  whose  surfaces,  not  being  really 
touched  by  any  wind,  retain  as  perfect  a  polish  as  the 
calm  itself.  On  the  summits  of  these  shining  little 
waves  the  most  brilliant  light  in  the  lower  sky,  what- 
ever its  color,  is  sure  to  be  reflected  like  a  low  moon 
on  the  sea  ripple.  Thus  these  wavelets  select  the 
brightest  edging  of  the  clouds,  and  reflect  it  a  million- 
fold.  These  millions  of  reflections,  w7hich  in  reality 
are  spread  over  a  considerable  surface  of  gently  undu- 
lating water,  say  five  or  six  yards  broad,  and  some 
hundreds  of  yards  long,  as  the  case  may  be,  are  to  the 


Highland  La?zdscafte. 


remote  spectator  massed  together  in  one  thin  line  of 
intense  light  and  color  between  the  glassy  calm  and 
the  surface  actually  touched  by  the  breeze. 

The  half  calms,  or  dulled  calms,  already  described, 
appear  to  take  their  color  nearly  always  from  the  sky 
towards  the  horizon.  The  strong  breezes,  on  the 
other  hand,  take  it  from  the  zenith,  owing,  of  course, 
to  the  angle  of  the  wavelets.  What  I  call  a  dulled 
calm  is,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  a  surface  of  water 
which  has  been  visited  by  a  breeze,  and  rippled,  then 
suddenly  abandoned  by  it.  The  ripples  take  a  long 
time  to  settle  away  altogether  into  the  glassy  calm  ; 
in  the  interval  they  leave  a  very  low,  long  swell,  which 
takes,  when  seen  from  a  distance,  the  character  I  call 
a  dull  calm.  When  a  very  soft  breeze  is  just  begin- 
ning to  agitate  a  surface  of  glassy  calm,  it  will  produce 
nearly  the  same  effect  upon  it. 

The  reader,  however,  is  only  bound  to  rely  upon  my 
facts,  not  my  explanations.  I  never  state  anything  in 
paint  without  having  the  fullest  authority  for  it,  be- 
cause paint  only  states  facts,  and  does  not  pretend  to 
account  for  them.  But  when  I  write,  and  try  to  find 
reasons  for  the  phenomena  I  describe,  it  is  probable 
that  I  may  often  be  in  error. 

VI. 

A  FINE  DAY  IN  JUNE,  i860. 

In  perfectly  serene  weather,  with  a  refreshing  breeze, 
the  phenomena  produced  are  extremely  simple.  The 
atmosphere  in  sunny  weather  is  rarely  quite  clear  in 
damp  countries  ;  and  a  fine  day  in  the  Highlands  gen- 


Highland  Landscape. 


187 


erally  produces  vapor  enough  to  make  the  hills  very 
soft  and  tender  in  outline.  The  type  of  the  most 
enjoyable  Highland  weather  is  this  :  The  mountains  in 
their  own  local  color,  not  much  altered  by  the  effect ; 
green  for  the  most  part,  and  scarred  with  reddish, 
or  purplish,  or  gray  rocks,  all  outlines  soft  and  tender 
and  vague,  still  perfectly  well  defined  even  in  their 
softness.  The  sky,  a  very  pale  lovely  blue,  delicate- 
ly gradated ;  the  water,  if  under  a  pleasant  sailing- 
breeze,  as  intensely  blue  as  ultramarine  can  get  it,  yet 
a  very  deep  color,  not  to  be  got  out  of  ultramarine 
alone,  because  there  are  purplish  browns  in  it  pro- 
duced by  the  play  of  the  dark  brown  water  with  the 
azure  sky-reflections.  Lastly,  if  the  wind  freshens, 
all  this  dark  blue  will  be  flecked  with  snowy  crests 
of  breakers. 

Highland  scenery  is  never  so  lovely  as  under  this 
aspect.  It  has,  of  course,  much  more  power  over  the 
mind  when  the  effects  are  succeeding  each  other  in 
their  strength.  There  are  effects  which  are  enough  to 
make  one  weep,  and  others  that  fill  one  wTith  active 
excitement;  but  this  soft  and  tender  purity  of  the 
wandering  air,  the  light  music  of  the  waters  as  they 
break  in  tiny  waves  all  round  the  quiet  isles,  the  vel- 
vet texture  of  all  the  earth's  covering,  the  pale  azure 
of  the  cloudless  sky,  the  deep  blue  of  "the  lonely  inland 
sea,  —  all  these  things  lull  us  into  dreams  of  another 
life  and  world ;  as  if  these  were  the  sapphire  floors  of 
heaven,  and  these  its  isles  of  rest ! 

The  loveliness  of  the  coloring  in  such  weather  is 
due  to  the  exquisite  harmony  of  three  great  fields  of 
color.  First,  the  blue  of  the  sky,  tender  and  pale ; 
then  the  rich  olive-green  of  the  mountains,  pale  also, 


Highland  Landscape. 


yet  full  in  color ;  lastly,  the  deep,  intense  blue  of  the 
water. 

Nature  will  sometimes  heighten  this  picture  with 
brilliant  white.  She  will  put  pure  white  clouds  in 
the  sky,  and  whiten  her  dark  blue  waves  with  foam. 
Man  does  no  wrong  to  her  picture  when  he  cleaves 
those  waves  under  a  cloud  of  white  canvas,  scarcely 
less  lovely  upon  the  water  than  Nature's  own  clouds 
in  the  air  above. 

VII. 

AFTER  RAIN,  JULY  I,   l86l — 9.3O  P.  M. 

The  summits  of  the  Cruachan  range  are  all  hidden 
in  mist.  The  lake  is  not  dead  calm,  but  just  subsiding 
into  it.    All  the  breezes  have  died  away. 

There  is  a  huge  cloud  at  the  base  of  Cruachan,  of  a 
pale  bluish  gray.  It  is  all  quite  clearly  defined  against 
the  dark  hill.  Its  base  is  about  sixty  feet  above  the 
lake  at  the  lowest  point.  Its  summit  rises  to  a  height 
of  sixteen  or  eighteen  hundred  feet.  It  is  exactly 
seven  miles  long.  All  its  outline  is  sharp  and  hard, 
except  towards  Kilchurn. 

VIII. 

CALM  AFTER  RAIN,  MAY  21,   1 86 1  8  P.  M. 

The  sky  is  blue  at  the  zenith,  greenish  towards  the 
horizon.  Great  lake  clouds  are  rising  fast,  and  one 
peak  is  perfectly  islanded  by  them.  This  summit  is 
dark  purple,  and  as  hard  and  definite  in  outline  as  it 
would  be  possible  to  draw  it.    An  enormous  cloud  is 


Highland  Landscape.  189 


ingulfing  this  mountain  all  round  in  vast  billows  of 
opaque,  aluminium-colored  gray. 

A  mountain  on  the  left  has  a  sort  of  peruke,  more 
like  cotton  wool  than  I  ever  saw  any  cloud  before ; 
the  crown  of  the  hill  piercing  the  peruke  as  a  priest's 
skull  seems  to  pierce  his  natural  head  of  hair  when  he 
is  tonsured.  This  mountain-top,  however,  is  intensely 
dark  and  deep  in  tone. 

All  the  local  coloring  of  the  land  is  uncommonly 
full  and  rich,  on  account  of  the  recent  rain.  Under 
the  cloud  in  the  far  distance  the  hills  run  into  an 
azure,  quite  like  Titian's  distances.  The  whole  light 
is  Titianesque  in  its  solemn  evening  gloom.  Titian, 
however,  would  not  have  valued  the  pearly  gray  of 
the  cloud  at  its  true  worth  ;  it  would  have  been  too 
cold  for  his  feeling.  Veronese  would  have  liked  it 
better.  Neither  would  have  painted  it  as  it  is.  I 
wonder  how  David  Cox  would  have  interpreted  it. 

IX. 

OCTOBER  IO,  1859  9  P«  M' 

At  this  season,  Ben  Cruachan  is  patched  with 
blood-red  fields  of  fern.  To-night  it  is  belted  with 
a  narrow  girdle  of  white  cloud,  which  is  carried  in 
the  front  of  Ben  Vorich  too,  thin  and  light  as  a  girl's 
sash.  In  the  corrie,  the  upper  part  of  the  mountain 
is  intensely  and  darkly  blue.  The  summit  is  hidden 
in  pale  gray  rain-cloud.  The  lake  is  calm  and  re- 
flects everything. 


190 


Highland  Landscape. 


X. 

OCTOBER  IO,  1859  4.3O  P.M. 

The  mountains  are  all  extremely  full  in  color  after 
rain,  and  this  autumnal  color.  The  distant  ones 
mingle  an  intense  blue  with  all  their  purples.  Far 
off  rises  one  pale  gray  crest,  neither  purple  nor  blue. 

On  the  right,  a  thick,  opaque  whitish-gray  cloud 
lies  low  in  the  valley ;  the  mountains  rising  far  above 
it  clearly  and  sharply.  The  cloud  looks  as  heavy  as 
if  it  had  been  cut  out  of  white  marble. 

The  hills  to  the  left  have,  as  it  were,  thin  scarves  of 
white  semi-transparent  mist  floating  in  graceful  curves 
about  their  feet. 

There  is  a  great  promontory  jutting  into  the  lake 
which  receives  the  full  splendor  of  the  setting  sun,  and 
is  all  in  one  flame  of  red  and  gold  autumn  color,  made 
intense  by  late  rain,  .and  relieved  against  the  dark 
mountains  behind  it  which  lie  in  the  shadow  of 
Cruachan.  This  burning  promontory  is  all  reflected 
in  the  calm  lake. 

The  sunshine  catches  the  side  of  Ben  Vorich.  The 
anatomy  of  Ben  Vorich  comes  out  wonderfully  under 
slanting  light,  it  is  so  muscular  and  complex.  Its  full 
golden  color  in  the  lights  is  very  fine  to-night. 

The  little  group  of  islands  about  Fraoch  Elan  is  in 
full  light. 

All  the  details  of  cloud  and  mountain  are  repro- 
duced in  the  calm  lake,  but  slightly  brushed  together 
by  an  invisible  ripple. 

The  foreground  consists  of  trees  with  foliage  of 
burning  gold. 


Highland  Landscape.  1 91 

Over  all  this  splendor  the  sky  is  one  roof  of  leaden 
gray,  elaborately  carved  into  a  thousand  beams  of 
wavy  cloud  one  behind  another.  In  all  this  vast  roof 
there  is  only  one  little  narrow  opening,  and  the  sky 
seen  through  it  is  of  a  yellowish-gray.  Towards  the 
horizon  the  cloud  itself  becomes  bluer,  and  then 
finally  gradates  also  to  a  yellowish-gray. 

XL 

THE  BLUE  HAZE. 

A  landscape-painter  once  asked  me  if  I  had  ever 
seen  the  blue  haze  in  Wales.  I  knew  what  he  meant, 
and  said  "  Yes  ;  "  for  it  is  a  very  common  effect  there, 
but  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  not  easily  forgotten.  It 
has  the  advantage  of  marking  the  recession  of  dis- 
tances better  than  any  other ;  and,  as  the  color  is  ex- 
tremely lovely,  this  effect  is  a  great  favorite  with  artists. 

It  comes  on  here  in  the  Highlands  very  often  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  weather  is  calm.  The  skv  about 
the  sun  is  generally  very  warm  in  tone. 

Out  of  the  blue  haze  all  the  minor  hills  on  the  flank 
of  a  great  mountain  rise  sharply  one  behind  another, 
paler  and  paler  as  they  recede,  with  every  interval 
marked  with  a  precision  no  other  effect  admits  of. 

I  see  no  reason  why  this  effect  should  not  be  gen- 
erally intelligible.  Mr.  Wyld,  the  painter  to  whom 
this  work  is  dedicated,  has  rendered  it  often,  and 
with  complete  success,  and  buyers  appear  to  like 
it  in  his  works.  It  is  an  effect  admirably  suited 
to  Mr.  WykTs  feeling  for  tender  passages  of  pale 
color,  and  his  general  love  for  softness  of  outline, 


192 


Highland  Landscape, 


which  is  here  essential  to  truth.  It  suited  Turner,  too, 
who  attempted  it  often,  and  Claude  aimed  at  it  in 
some  of  his  most  delicate  distances.  But  I  cannot, 
at  this  moment,  call  to  mind  any  work  by  either 
Turner  or  Claude,  nor,  indeed,  by  any  other  master, 
which  has  interpreted  this  particular  effect  with  such 
unquestionable  success  as  Wyld's  large  picture  of 
Conway. 

I  cannot  at  present  refer  the  reader  to  any  work  of 
my  own  in  which  this  blue  haze  is  seriously  at- 
tempted, except  a  large  picture  on  which  I  shall 
be  occupied  in  the  autumn  of  the  present  year 
(1862),  to  be  entitled  "  The  Upper  Gates  of  Glen 
Etive." 

XII. 

A  BIT  OF  LAKE  SHORE. 

It  rises  in  three  distances,  one  behind  another. 

The  first  consists  of  woods  and  fields,  till  we  reach 
a  gray  precipice  with  a  velvety  green  bank  on  the  top 
of  it.  This  part  of  the  subject  is  full  of  various  greens 
and  yellows.  There  are  pale  greens  and  dark  greens, 
bluish  greens  and  yellowish  greens.  In  this  lie  golden 
fields  of  corn,  and  other  fields  where  the  gold  and  the 
green  contend  together.  These  different  greens  and 
golds,  though  they  gleam  as  if  they  were  strewn  all 
over  with  emeralds  and  nuggets,  would  be  worth 
little,  comparatively,  if  there  were  not  that  great 
curtain  of  hill  just  behind  it,  a  curtain  of  deep  pur- 
ple heather,  more  intense,  more  precious,  and  more 
lovely,  than  the  purple  of  a  king's  mantle. 

Behind  it  rises  the  third  ridge,  much  paler,  yet  still 


Highland  Landscape. 


J93 


richly  purple,  only  streaked  and  variegated  with 
greens  and  grays. 

I  am  speaking  quite  soberly  when  I  say  that,  if  all 
the  velvet  weavers  of  Lyons,  and  all  the  goldsmiths 
in  London,  were  set  to  clothe  a  model  hill  with  velvet 
and  jewels,  they  could  never  match  the  glory  of  this 
wild  Highland  shore. 

In  this  miserable  art  of  word-painting,  when  we 
would  convey  an  idea  of  depth  and  softness  of  lustre- 
less color,  we  talk  of  velvet ;  when  of  brilliant  color, 
we  talk  of  gems.  Less  than  a  month  ago  I  held  in 
my  hand  the  purple  velvet  mantle  of  a  crowned  king, 
good  velvet  enough,  good  as  ever  came  from  the 
looms  of  Lyons.  It  was  a  handsome  cloak,  no  doubt ; 
but  these  hills  are  more  royally  clad  than  he  who 
wTore  it.  Their  purple  is  subtle  and  varied,  and 
modulated  over  every  inch  of  it ;  the  royal  mantle  was 
monotonously  dyed.  And  as  to  emeralds,  one  dewy 
gleam  of  soft  short  grass  in  a  damp  spot  is  better,  so 
far  as  color  goes,  than  a  whole  basketful  of  them. 

XIII. 

SUNRISE  IN  AUTUMN.     MIST  RISING. 

The  sky  is  perfectly  clear,  quite  blue,  but  as  pale  as 
possible. 

All  the  upper  part  of  the  hills  beyond  Cladich  is 
intensely  clear,  so  that  the  outline  seems  quite  hard 
against  the  sky.  For  about  a  thousand  feet  down- 
wards this  clearness  continues.  All  this  is  already  in 
full  early  sunshine,  the  color  in  the  light  being  a 
mixture  of  greens  and  reddish  browns,  very  rich  in 
*3 


i94 


Highland  Landscape. 


its  way ;  but  all  the  shadows  are  very  pale,  and  have 
a  great  deal  of  blue  in  them. 

A  wrood  comes  down  to  the  shore,  on  the  left, 
which  is  quite  free  from  mist ;  but  between  this  wood 
and  the  mountain  a  white  cloud  is  rising.  It  is  about 
a  thousand  feet  high,  and  cuts  quite  sharply  against 
the  hill-side,  where  the  top  of  it  looks  so  solid  and 
so  level  that  an  imaginative  person  might  fancy  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  ride  along  it  on  horseback. 

The  most  beautiful  and  peculiar  feature  of  this  pic- 
ture remains  to  be  described.  The  mountain-crest, 
which  is  in  reality  seven  miles  off  as  the  crow 
flies,  looks  quite  close  at  hand,  because  it  is  in  the 
clear  upper  air.  The  shore  of  the  lake,  which  lies 
in  the  mist,  seems  to  recede  into  infinite  space,  tree 
behind  tree,  each  paler  and  paler  in  the  gray  veil  of 
cloud.  So  here  we  have  a  hill  whose  base  actually 
appears  much  farther  from  us  than  its  summit; 
and  yet  the  effect  is  a  strangely  attractive  one  for  a 
painter,  for  there  is  the  contrast  of  silvery  mist  on 
the  lake  and  ineffable  clearness  in  the  upper  air. 

I  intend  to  paint  a  picture  of  this  effect,  and  shall 
get  it  as  true  as  I  can  ;  but  only  for  my  own  private 
collection.  It  is  quite  useless  to  exhibit  such  effects, 
because  they  are  not  understood  —  a  most  lamentable 
impediment,  for  they  are  exquisitely  beautiful,  and 
ought  by  all  means  to  be  recorded. 

XIV. 

A  MORNING  IN  MARCH. 

Against  a  sky  of  pale  pure  green  stand  out  the  snow- 
covered  mountains.    They  are  plated  with  thin  snow 


Highland  Landscape, 


195 


this  time  as  a  bronze  statue  might  be  plated  with 
silver.  No  form  is  lost ;  every  detail  of  the  mountain's 
muscle  is  so  well  defined  that  it  looks  as  if  it  were  all 
carved  out  of  supernaturally  white  marble. 

Across  a  thousand  hillocks,  streams,  ravines,  bosses, 
and  buttresses,  the  bright  early  sun  is  shining.  Every 
shadow  has  its  own  sharp,  clear,  exquisite  outline  ; 
and  as  for  their  color !  it  is  to  pale  ultramarine  what 
fresh  mountain-snow  in  strong  sunshine  is  to  white- 
lead  in  a  garret. 

Under  this  the  lake  lies  gray  and  cold,  rippled  by  a 
light  breeze  ;  and  its  tiny  waves  break  on  the  snow- 
covered  islands  with  a  low,  monotonous  music.  And 
behold  !  on  the  high  and  dazzling  brow  of  Ben  Crua- 
chan  a  cloud  has  wreathed  itself  suddenly,  like  a  white 
turban ;  and,  as  I  look,  I  hardly  know  which  is  the 
whiter,  the  mountain  or  the  mist. 

XV. 

LOCH  AWE  ON  AN  EVENING  IN  MARCH. 

The  shores  and.  islands  are  all  covered. with  snow, 
yet  thinly,  so  as  to  let  the  dark  moorland  appear 
through  it  in  a  thousand  fantastic  streaks.  The  sky  is 
like  lead,  the  lake  of  a  dull,  monotonous  gray  ;  and  the 
cold  wind  comes  across  it  from  the  northern  moun- 
tains in  fitful,  melancholy  gusts.  The  island  I  live 
upon  is  the  foreground  of  the  picture ;  it  is  covered 
thinly  with  snow,  and  dotted  with  heaps  of  dead  fern. 
The  stunted  oaks  look  sad  and  gray.  Ben  Cruachan 
rises  in  the  north,  pale  against  the  leaden  sky,  covered 
from  head  to  foot  with  half-melted  snow,  arrested  in 
its  thawing  by  the  night  cold. 


196  HigJil(Z7td  Landscape. 

The  shades  deepen,  the  hills  and  islands  grow 
stranger  and  stranger.  They  are  truly  ghastly  now, 
like  corpses  of  hills  laid  out  in  solemn  state  around  a 
desolate  mere.  Has  my  island  floated  away  into  the 
northern  sea ;  and  are  these  the  hills  of  the  dark  ice- 
world  ? 

It  is  a  landscape  to  make  one  weep  for  mere  mourn- 
fulness  —  so  lonely  and  sad  it  is,  so  utterly  chilling  and 
cheerless. 

XVI. 

A  CLACHAN. 

A  genuine  Highland  clachan  (hamlet)  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  things  in  the  world,  especially  just 
after  rain,  when  the  color  comes  out.  The  houses,  as 
everybody  knows,  of  one  story  only,  are  built  of  great 
rough  stones,  and  thatched  in  a  rude  way  with  rushes- 
Considered  as  artificial  things,  they  do  no  honor  to 
their  artificers,  for  all  their  beauty  is  due  to  nature, 
and  to  the  poverty  of  the  builders,  who  were  not  rich 
enough  to  contend  with  nature.  Whenever  High- 
landers are  well  off  they  cease  to  build  picturesquely 
altogether,  the  inns,  and  farm-houses,  and  kirks,  being 
uniformly  square  and  hideous,  whilst  the  castles  of 
the  nobility  are  usually,  if  of  recent  date,  devoid  of  all 
interest,  except  as  enduring  examples  of  the  lowest 
bathos  of  the  "Gothic"  renaissance.  If  the  High- 
landers could  build  churches  and  castles  as  grandly  as 
they  build  poor  men's  huts,  their  country  would  be  as 
great  in  architecture  as  it  is  in  scenery. 

The  poor  men's  huts  have  the  sublimity  of  rocks 
and  hillocks.    The  coloring  of  the  walls  is  so  exquisite 


Highland  Landscape. 


197 


that  it  would  take  a  noble  colorist  to  imitate  it  at  all. 
Gold  of  lichen,  rose  of  granite,  green  of  moss,  make 
the  rude  stones  of  the  poor  man's  house  glorious  with 
such  color  as  no  palace  in  all  England  rivals.  And, 
as  if  it  were  especially  intended  by  nature  that  full 
justice  should  be  done  to  her  fair  coloring  by  the  most 
desirable  foil  and  contrast,  she  has  given  the  High- 
landers peat,  which  they  build  into  stacks  close  to 
their  habitations,  and  whose  intense  depth  of  mingled 
purples  and  browns  makes  their  walls  gleam  like 
jewelry.  And  when  some  cottage  in  the  clachan  lies 
empty  and  deserted,  and  the  wood-work  of  the  roof 
rises,  a  grim  skeleton,  above  the  abandoned  walls, 
blacker  than  black,  yet  full  of  deep  purples  in  its 
blackness,  arrangements  of  color  become  possible  to 
the  painter  such  as  the  strongest  colorists  desire. 

And  all  the  adjuncts  are  so  perfect.  The  landscape 
about  a  clachan  is  nearly  always  lovely.  There  is 
sure  to  be  a  gray  precipice  or  purple  hill  within  sight, 
or  a  rocky  stream,  or,  at  any  rate,  a  picturesque  group 
of  trees.  Then  the  people  who  live  in  it  are  so  pic- 
turesque. I  have  never  in  my  life  seen  finer  figure- 
subjects  than  some  noble  groups  of  strong,  hardy 
children,  playing  about  the  doors  of  the  huts,  and  clad 
in  all  manner  of  admirable  rags.  And  the  very  cows 
are  clothed  in  lovelier  fur  than  any  other  cows.  Noth- 
ing in  animal  life  is  grander  than  a  little  Highland 
bull,  black  as  coal,  and  majestic  as  a  king,  marching 
heavily,  with  a  strong  sense  of  his  own  personal 
dignity  and  might.  No  wonder  Rosa  Bonheur  likes 
the  Highland  cattle.  It  is  enough  to  drive  a  painter 
half  crazy  with  delight  to  see  the  sunshine  in  their  fur ! 
Then  what  variety  of  color  there  is  in  them !  You 


198 


Highland  Landscape. 


have  them  of  all  colors — black,  cream,  tawny,  red, 
and  brown,  grouping  with  each  other  exactly  as  if 
they  were  artistic  cows  composing  grand  living  pic- 
tures for  our  especial  pleasure. 

Nor  is  any  painter  likely  to  forget  the  sheep  with 
their  twisted  horns,  that  the  travelling  tinker  will 
make  spoons  of  some  day  for  the  cottagers'  wives. 
And  now  and  then  he  will  find  a  goat,  or  even  a 
young  roe-fawn  from  the  mountains,  as  I  have  seen 
cherished  and  petted  by  children  as  lovely  and  grace- 
ful and  active  as  itself. 

These  things  shall  you  see  about  the  cottages  of  our 
poor  peasantry ;  these,  and  commonly  also  a  little 
field  of  corn,  all  green  and  gold  in  its  partial  ripening, 
and  laid,  perhaps,  by  thoughtless  gales.  There  will 
be  a  little  kail-yard,  too  —  that  is,  a  miniature  garden 
for  cabbages  —  and  a  plot  for  potatoes. 

And  out  of  these  little  huts  there  come  as  fine 
women  as  eyes  can  behold.  Mighty  and  robust  is  the 
typical  Highland  beauty.  Her  eyes  are  brown,  like 
the  pool  of  a  stream  in  the  heather ;  her  cheeks  are 
full  and  florid  as  red  apples  ;  her  hair  is  of  deepest 
brown  or  black.  Strong  arms  has  she  for  labor,  stout 
legs  for  travel,  full  breasts  to  feed  her  babes.  Her 
structure  is  more  for  use  than  grace ;  her  feet  are 
large,  her  ankles  thick,  yet  she  is  a  glorious  creature. 

XVII. 

A  LAKE  STORM,  OCTOBER,  i860. 

The  wind  is  tearing  the  trees  up  by  the  roots. 
There  are  breakers  in  front  of  my  house  as  large  as 


Highland  Landscape. 


199 


those  on  the  sea-shore  in  a  fresh  breeze.  I  think  the 
waves  out  on  the  loch  are  about  five  feet  high,  meas- 
uring from  the  bottom  of  the  hollows  to  the  crests, 
but  I  doubt  if  they  are  higher,  though  when  you  are 
amongst  them  they  look  so. 

I  tried  to  get  my  "  Britannia"  (double  tubular  life- 
boat) out  in  it,  but  found  it  impossible  for  Thursday 
and  me  to  make  way  against  the  wind,  which  was 
perfectly  furious.  We  could  not  have  pulled  out  of 
the  bay  to  save  our  lives.  I  had  the  boat  broadside 
on  for  some  time,  and  she  bore  it  well.  I  was  as 
comfortable  as  if  I  had  been  in  the  house. 

The  shores  of  the  lake  are  all  dim  monotonous 
gray.  The  water  looks  fearfully  black  at  times,  all 
flecked  with  white  yeast,  that  flies  from  crest  to  crest 
when  caught  in  the  air.  Terrible  rain-squalls  cover 
the  lake  from  shore  to  shore  with  a  sharp  line  of  ghast- 
ly gray,  that  advances  in  all  its  breadth  over  the  great 
black  caldron  of  waters  as  fast  as  charging  cavalry. 

The  hills  are  streaked  with  white  streams ;  there  is 
a  torrent  in  every  ravine.  The  distant  roar  of  a  thou- 
sand waterfalls  mingles  with  the  loud  noises  of  the 
wind  and  waves. 

XVIII. 

A  CALM  DAY,  MARCH  29,   1 859. 

We  have  had  several  weeks  of  continual  storms. 
They  have  come  from  the  Atlantic,  like  the  march  of 
an  infinite  army.  It  seemed  as  if  they  would  never 
end,  never  have  passed  over  us. 

The  last  of  their  tumultuous  host  is  gone.  A  morn- 
ing has  dawned  at  last,  the  Sabbath  of  the  winds  and 
waves. 


200  Highland  Landscape. 

The  lake  lies  stilled  in  sleep,  reflecting  every  isle  and 
every  tree  along  the  shore,  its  bright  plain  dimmed 
here  and  there  by  faint  breezes,  that  remain  each 
in  its  place  with  singular  constancy,  as  if  invisible 
angels  hovered  over  the  waters  and  breathed  upon 
them  here  and  there.  And  under  the  great  mountain 
what  a  dark,  unfathomable  calm  !  What  utter  repose 
and  peace  !  It  is  incredible  that  ever  wind  blew  there, 
and  though  but  yesterday  this  shining  liquid  plain  was 
covered  with  ten  thousand  crested  wraves,?and  count- 
less squalls  struck  it  all  over  like  swooping  eagles 
flying  from  every  quarter  of  the  heavens,  it  lies  so 
calmly  to-day  in  its  deep  bed,  that  one  cannot  help 
believing,  in  spite  of  all  evidence,  that  thus  it  has  been 
from  the  foundation  of  the  world,  and  thus  it  shall  be 
forever  and  forever ! 

The  hills  are  clothed  with  purple,  slashed  wTith 
green.  The  sky  is  not  cloudless,  but  the  clouds  move 
so  languidly  that  their  slowness  of  movement  is  more 
expressive  of  indolence  than  the  uttermost  stony  still- 
ness. Like  great  ships  on  a  rippling  sea,  with  all 
their  white  sails  spread,  they  float  imperceptibly  west- 
wards, as  though  they  had  eternity  to  voyage  in.  And 
just  under  them,  in  blinding  light,  behold  the  shining 
crests  of  snow ! 

XIX. 

A  STREAM  IN  ACTION. 

If  the  reader  happens  to  possess  the  "  The  Isles 
of  Loch  Awe,"  he  wTill  find  a  vignette  entitled  the 
"  Bridge  of  Cladich."  Its  subject  is  a  single  pictu- 
resque arch  thrown  high  over  a  rocky  stream,  with 
waterfalls. 


Highland  Landscape. 


20 1 


The  stream,  as  I  said,  is  rocky,  and  the  rocks  are 
very  bold  and  high.  Yet  sometimes  the  volume  of 
water  is  so  tremendous  as  to  hide  every  rock  in  it, 
even  that  great  central  mass  under  the  bridge  in  the 
vignette. 

On  such  occasions  it  is  worth  while  to  stand  upon 
the  bridge  and  look  over.  The  water  is  very  wild, 
and  very  fierce,  and  very  strong,  yet  not  lawless,  for  it 
follows  certain  forms  with  wonderful  fidelity.  The 
rocks  under  it  dictate  the  form  of  its  flowing,  and  the 
water  steadily  obeys.  Yet  there  appear  to  be  little 
periodical  pulsations  and  variations  from  the  law, 
caused  by  subtle  minor  laws.  Thus,  I  perceive  that  a 
certain  jet  of  spray  is  thrown  up  every  quarter  of  a 
minute  or  so,  at  a  particular  spot,  as  regularly  as  the 
action  of  a  steam  engine,  and  at  certain  statable  in- 
tervals a  wave  on  the  shore  rises  three  inches  higher, 
then  subsides  to  its  old  level.  The  end  of  an  alder 
bough  is  dipped  in  the  current  and  thrown  out  by  the 
force  of  the  water ;  but  the  spring  of  the  wood  forces 
it  back  again,  and  the  contention  of  the  two  produces 
an  alternate  movement  as  regular  as  that  of  a  pen- 
dulum. 

In  spite  of  the  rapidity  of  this  torrent's  flowing, 
there  are  parts  of  it  nearly  at  rest,  except  their  own 
ceaseless  circling  in  deep  holes  at  the  side.  There 
are  great  lumps  of  thick  yellow  yeast  in  these  places, 
whirling  round  and  round. 

The  coloring  of  the  water  is  full  of  fine  browns  and 
yellows,  good  tawny  rich  coloring,  with  creamy  white 
at  one  end  of  the  scale  and  something  like  fire-opal  at 
the  other. 

Anything  like  realization  of  water  in  such  furious 


202 


Highland  Landscape. 


action  is  perhaps  impossible  ;  but  I  see  no  reason  to 
despair  of  a  fair  interpretation  of  its  principal  forms 
and  hues  under  a  gloomy  sky.  The  moment  the  sun 
comes  out  on  white  water  we  are  checkmated,  of 
course,  because  we  have  nothing  in  the  color-box 
bright  enough  to  match  it. 

The  enormous  force  of  a  stream  like  this,  in  full 
action,  may  be  best  illustrated  by  an  anecdote. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  rowing  home  from  Port  Sona- 
chan  at  midnight,  in  a  little  open  punt.  The  night 
was  intensely  dark,  and  very  wet.  I  kept  near  the 
shore,  and  was  very  much  astonished  to  find  myself 
suddenly  in  white  water,  for  there  was  just  light 
enough  to  distinguish  white  foam  from  the  black  lake. 
Once  in  this  white  water,  I  was  caught,  and  tossed, 
and  driven  about  like  a  cork,  but  luckily  escaped 
being  capsized,  and  rowed  with  all  my  might  till  I 
got  safely  out  of  it.  It  was  the  River  Cladich,  which 
happened  to  be  in  flood,  and  came  out  far  into  the 
lake  before  its  force  was  spent. 

XX. 

A  STREAM  AT  REST. 

Brown  pools,  very  deep,  very  smooth,  and  very 
quiet ;  pale  golden-yellow  at  the  shallow  side,  where 
not  an  inch  of  water  covers  the  smooth  pebbles ;  then 
darkening  as  the  water  deepens  through  all  the  shades 
of  gold  and  brown  to  something  darker  and  more  ter- 
rible than  mere  blackness.  Out  of  this,  and  all  round 
it,  rise  gray  rocks,  almost  white  now  in  the  dazzling 
weather.    A  thin  trickling  thread  of  water  still  creeps 


Highland  Landscape, 


203 


on  from  pool  to  pool.  Its  low  music  is  the  only  sound 
I  hear,  except  the  hum  of  the  wild  bee's  wings  as  he 
flies  down  the  summer  stream  between  its  banks  of 
flowers. 

I  had  decided  to  <iimit  myself  to  twenty  sketches 
when  I  began  this  chapter,  and  I  will  give  no  more, 
as  I  know  very  well  they  are  very  tiresome  to  read. 
But  I  stop  short  only  out  of  consideration  for  the 
reader.  I  could  easily  fill  a  volume  as  large  as  this 
with  such  studies  of  Highland  landscape,  and  a  whole 
volume  of  them  would  be  needed  to  give  any  idea  of 
its  immense  range  and  variety.  In  this  chapter  I  have 
only  just  been  able  to  touch  upon  the  subject  slightly. 
I  have  not  even  analyzed  the  most  ordinary  effects  of 
rain  ;  but  these  have  been  often  painted,  and  the  public 
is  familiar  with  them.  I  have  not  mentioned  a  castle, 
because  descriptions  of  one  or  two  of  them  occur  in 
other  parts  of  the  work,  and  for  the  same  reason  I 
have  said  nothing  about  moonlight. 

It  would  have  been  well  to  mention  a  fine  chord  of 
color,  found  perhaps  oftener  in  the  Highlands  than 
anywhere  else. 

In  the  twilight,  after  sunset,  before  the  greens  of  the 
lower  hills  have  lost  any  of  their  intensity,  you  will 
constantly  find,  after  rain,  a  picture  arranged  thus  :  — 

Upper  Sky  —  Filled  with  gray  rain-clouds. 

Lower  Sky  —  A  band  of  deep  golden  yellow  near 
the  horizon. 

Upper  Hills  —  Intense  purple  (against  gold  in  the 
sky). 

Lower  Hills  —  Deep  greens  (against  purple  of 
upper  hills). 

Water  —  All  gray,  with  ripple. 


204 


Highland  Landscape, 


This  chord  of  gold,  purple,  and  green,  enclosed  be- 
tween two  cold  grays,  is  always  magnificent,  and  the 
lowness  of  the  light  makes  it  available  for  a  painter's 
use. 

How  far  the  Highlands  may  be  generally  useful  to 
our  landscape-painters  as  a  school  of  study,  and  what 
effect  the  country  is  likely  to  have  on  them  if  they 
study  in  it  long,  remain  to  be  considered. 

It  is  unfavorable  to  the  severe  study  of  form.  The 
forms  are  as  beautiful  as  need  be  ;  but  it  is  difficult  to 
get  a  fair  opportunity  of  drawing  a  mountain  deli- 
cately from  head  to  foot,  in  such  a  cloudy  climate 
as  this,  unless  one  lives  here,  as  I  have  done. 

Then  it  needs  such  cumbrous  defences  against  the 
weather.  It  is  unnecessary  to  explain  this  here,  be- 
cause it  has  been  explained  already  in  this  volume. 

I  confess  that  I  would  not  now,  after  five  years'  ex- 
perience of  the  country,  come  here  for  the  hard, 
scientific  study  of  mountain  anatomy,  though  I  hope 
often  to  revisit  the  country  to  refresh  my  recollection 
of  it. 

But  for  the  discipline  of  steady  work  from  nature 
I  shall  henceforth  keep  to  the  drier  climates  of  the 
Continent. 

This  in  common  prudence.  Hard  drawing  of  moun- 
tain-form is  very  difficult  in  continual  mist  and  rain, 
and  a  week  of  such  work  in  a  bad  climate  carries  you 
no  farther  than  two  days'  work  in  a  good  one,  whilst 
it  fatigues  you  more,  and  is  incomparably  more  un- 
pleasant. 

This  country  is  a  wonderfully  great  and  noble  school 
for  landscape  effect.  Two  or  three  years'  residence  in 
it  for  the  express  purpose  of  studying  effect  would 


Highland  Landscape. 


205 


be  desirable  for  any  landscape-painter  with  memory 
enough  to  paint  effects.  He  ought,  during  his  resi- 
dence here,  to  paint  very  rapidly,  say  about  one  small 
picture  a  week,  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  as  many 
effects  as  possible  in  the  time.  I  have  lost  a  great  deal 
of  valuable  time  here  in  trying  too  obstinately  after 
accuracy  in  for?n.  A  prudent  artist  would  study  form 
thoroughly  in  France,  and  then  come  to  the  High- 
lands to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  effect,  accepting  such 
form  as  he  could  easily  come  by,  but  taking  no  trouble 
about  it. 

Local  color  is  here  less  easily  studied  than  in  less 
changeable  climates,  because  it  is  nearly  always  al- 
tered and  interfered  with  by  transient  effects. 

Transient  color  here  is  to  be  had  in  the  utmost  con- 
ceivable splendor  and  power. 

The  scenery  here  is  full  of  magnificent  natural  com- 
position ;  but  that  is  not  at  all  like  the  common  com- 
position patterns,  and  is  so  unconventional  as  to  be 
disliked  by  shallow  artists.  It  is  a  good  country 
wherein  to  study  nature's  art  of  composition. 

But  I  doubt  whether  it  is  prudent  even  for  the 
strongest  men  to  work  much  from  nature  in  this  cli- 
mate without  the  protection  of  a  tent ;  and  even  then 
the  dampness  of  the  ground  may  bring  on  rheumatism. 

All  these  considerations  drive  painters  inevitably  to 
make  hasty  memoranda  when  they  come  here,  rather 
than  careful  studies.  The  swift  and  apparently  rude 
execution  of  Cox  was,  I  have  no  doubt,  brought  about 
by  similar  influences  in  Wales.  Hence  it  is  wiser  in 
pre-Raphaelite  painters  to  select  those  continental  cli- 
mates where  simple  sunshine  is  the  ordinary  weather, 
and  the  grand  effects  are  rare. 


206 


HigJiland  Landscape. 


For  artists,  on  the  other  hand,  who  are  strong 
enough  to  work  entirely  on  the  Turnerian  system,  and 
for  whom  a  hasty  sketch  is  all  that  is  necessary,  the 
Highlands  offer  as  noble  a  field  as  could  possibly  be 
desired.  It  does  not  in  the  least  matter  to  them  that 
the  weather  makes  the  accurate  portraiture  of  moun- 
tains difficult,  because  they  do  not  attempt  portraiture. 
The  form  of  a  hill  or  a  castle  is  to  them  of  just  the 
same  importance  as  the  form  of  a  cloud  —  no  more  ; 
and  as  they  walk  or  drive  through  the  country,  an  oc- 
casional rest  for  half  an  hour  by  the  way  is  all  they 
need  for  sketching. 


20? 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  LONG  DRIVE  IN  THE  GLENS. 

I THINK  I  understand  now  the  philosophy  of 
carriage-keeping. 

Suppose  I  have  a  precious  little  collection  of  pic- 
tures and  engravings,  the  interest  on  which  represents 
about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

Suppose  my  neighbor  has  a  handsome  carriage, 
costing  him  altogether  about  the  same  annual  sum. 

My  pictures  can  be  seen  only  by  my  friends  and 
servants.  My  friends,  probably,  think  me  a  fool  for 
spending  my  money  in  paintings,  and  my  servants 
think  the  pictures,  frames  included,  worth  from  five  to 
thirty  shillings  apiece,  and  respect  me  and  them  ac- 
cordingly. 

But  everybody  sees  my  neighbor  Thomson's  car- 
riage. Brilliant  with  silver  and  varnished  leather,  his 
proud  steeds  clatter  over  the  pavement,  dazzling  the 
eyes  of  thousands.  Every  peasant  knows  that  Thom- 
son keeps  his  carriage ;  every  shopkeeper  bows 
Thomson's  wife  into  that  splendid  vehicle.  Robed  in 
state,  she  goeth  forth  like  a  queen  to  the  festivals  of 
the  rich,  whither  my  wife,  let  us  suppose,  is  conveyed 
in  a  hired  fly.  All  the  world  knows  that  carriages 
are  costly.  Money  spent  in  a  carriage  is  like  a  beacon 
set  on  a  hill  that  all  eyes  behold.  It  is  an  advertise- 
ment of  wealth  far  more  public  in  your  own  neighbor- 


208 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens, 


hood  than  if  you  printed  a  daily  advertisement  in 
the  Tithes^  announcing  your  receipts,  like  a  public 
company.  So,  if  you  want  to  be  respected,  pinch  as 
much  as  you  will  in  other  things,  but  keep,  O  keep,  a 
carriage  !  Let  its  lining  be  silken  and  soft ;  let  its 
lamps  be  brighter  than  stars  ;  let  your  armorial  bear- 
ings (inherited  or  stolen,  as  the  case  may  be)  be 
blazoned  on  its  delicately-hung  doors  !  Let  its  han- 
dles be  of  silver,  and  its  ornaments  of  embossed  silver. 
Let  its  caparisoned  steeds  shake  your  shining  crest  on 
every  strap  of  their  trappings.  Then  rush  through 
the  sylvan  lane  and  the  crowded  city,  everywhere 
shall  the  respect  of  multitudes  await  you  !  Gentle- 
men shall  lift  their  hats  and  ladies  bow  and  smile  ; 
rustics  shall  pull  their  unkempt  locks,  and  tradesmen 
bend  low  with  reverence. 

Now,  my  carriage  commanded  no  man's  respect.  I 
wonder  why.  I  am  sure  it  was  a  very  tolerable  sort 
of  carriage.  And  it  really  was  very  disappointing  to 
be  despised  after  all,  when  I  had  bought  Thursday  a 
pair  of  handsome  boots,  and  made  him  sew  a  bit  of 
gold  band  round  his  cap  (to  say  nothing  of  his  green 
jacket  and  beautiful  brass  buttons  that  all  shone  like 
mirrors),  for  the  express  purpose  of  inspiring  the 
minds  of  the  multitude  with  respectful  awe  and  fear. 

I  am  sure  that  it  was  a  very  capital  carriage.  It  is 
true  that  it  grew  like  a  tree,  or  Mr.  Ru skin's  great 
book,  or  a  Gothic  cathedral,  and  was  not  designed 
and  executed  all  at  once,  like  a  wheelbarrow.  And 
if  it  could  not  command  respect,  it  shall  at  least  have 
fame,  like  many  a  great  soul  whom  the  neighbors 
scorned  and  the  nations  remember. 

First  of  all  it  existed  in  the  shape  of  a  platform 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens,  209 

with  four  wheels  of  equal  size,  like  a  Lancashire  stone 
wagon.  The  platform  was  intended  to  carry  a  boat. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  boat  carriage. 

Then  the  two  fore-wheels  were  replaced  by  smaller 
ones  for  facility  of  turning. 

So  it  remained  for  a  long  time.  Then,  when  Thurs- 
day's hut  was  taken  to  pieces,  its  walls  were  turned  to 
other  uses.  One  of  them  became  a  kitchen  table,  and 
the  remaining  three  formed,  with  the  already  existing 
platform  of  the  wagon,  a  great  box,  measuring  eight 
feet  long  by  three  feet  wide,  and  more  than  three  feet 
high  —  the  very  thing  to  carry  camp  materials  in,  but 
more  useful  than  elegant. 

Then,  after  being  jolted  a  few  hundred  miles,  I 
decided  to  add  springs,  being  luxuriously  desirous  of 
personal  ease.  It  was  also  a  question  of  safety.  I 
had  been  nearly  jolted  off  my  high  seat  several  times, 
and  on  a  stony  road  had  only  one  hand  for  whip  and 
reins,  being  obliged  to  stick  to  the  wagon  with  the 
other  with  all  my  might  and  main. 

At  the  same  time  that  I  added  the  springs  I  got  a 
pole,  so  that  I  might  drive  a  pair,  and  so  get  on  faster, 
for  poor  Meg  went  but  slowly  when  the  wagon  was 
full. 

Now,  the  color  of  the  carriage  was  peculiar.  The 
wTheels  were  a  dark  green  —  very  respectable,  indeed, 
I  am  sure.  But  the  body,  being  made  up  of  Thurs- 
day's hut,  was  a  cool  and  delicate  gray.  Thursday's 
hut  had  been  originally  lead  color ;  but  as  that  turned 
out  too  hot  in  the  hot  weather,  Thursday,  with  his 
own  artist  hand,  had  superposed  a  coat  of  white.  For 
facility  of  working  he  had  put  too  much  turpentine  in 
his  white,  and  the  rain  had  washed  it  partly  off,  show- 

H 


2IO 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


ing  the  lead  color  underneath,  as  great  artists  often 
leave  visible  the  dead-coloring  of  a  fine  picture  through 
all  the  subsequent  processes.  I  could  compare  this 
effect  on  the  wagon  to  very  noble  things  indeed,  if  I 
thought  the  reader  would  appreciate  it.  It  looked 
like  a  gray  Highland  mountain  at  twilight,  on  a 
gloomy  winter's  evening,  when  the  snow  is  scattered 
thinly  over  it,  and  shows  its  lead-like  substance 
through. 

But  the  public  does  not  appreciate  variety  and 
gradation  in  carriage-painting  ;  so  I  ordered  the  whole 
wagon  to  be  painted  according  to  a  tint  I  mixed  my- 
self, which  the  colorman  praised  extremely,  and  called 
"  a  most  beautiful  wine  color." 

I  intended  to  glaze  it  with  crimson-lake  when  dry, 
and  rule  pretty  lines  of  vermilion  all  over  it ;  but  I 
thought  it  did  very  well  as  it  was,  and  so  left  it  the 
plain  unvarnished  "  wine  color."  It  was  a  great  error. 
It  should  have  been  all  glazed  and  varnished,  and 
ruled  with  red  lines,  and  I  ought  to  have  had  my 
arms  with  all  my  quarterings  delicately  emblazoned 
on  each  side  ;  but  then,  if  I  had  had  all  these  delight- 
ful splendors,  I  should  have  required  a  new  set  of 
double  harness  with  shining  scraps  of  electro-plate 
upon  it,  and  there  was  an  expense  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  incur.  So  this  piece  of  economy  consigned 
me  to  the  condemnation  of  unrespectability. 

For  the  harness  was  of  the  plainest.  Plain  black 
leather,  not  varnished,  with  plain  black  metal-work 
and  common  iron  bits  ;  not  one  jot  of  electro-plate 
about  it.  The  cut  of  it  was  massive  and  strong,  like 
light  cart  harness,  and  in  the  same  homely  fashion  ; 
the  whole  turn-out  looking  something  like  a  military 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


211 


ambulance  wagon,  not  in  any  wise  like  a  gentleman's 
carriage.  To  have  transformed  such  an  equipage  into 
a  gentlemanly  one  would  have  been  a  costly  and  very 
unsatisfactory  folly.  So,  although  the  wagon  was  cer- 
tainly not  respectable,  I  determined  to  be  contented 
with  it,  such  as  it  was,  and  abandoned  the  swreet 
dream  of  neatly-ruled  red  lines,  bright  varnish,  and 
glittering  electro-plate. 

As  to  the  horses,  I  still  kept  our  old  friend  Meg, 
and  hired  another  called  Kitty,  from  the  inn  at  Dal- 
mally.  The  first  time  they  made  their  acquaintance 
Meg  and  Kitty  were  put  together  into  my  stable. 
Now,  my  stable  was  separated  from  the  hen-house  by 
a  thin  wooden  partition,  and  as  both  Meg  and  Kitty 
did  nothing  but  kick  all  night  through,  they  entirely 
demolished  the  partition,  slew  some  old  hens,  broke 
numberless  eggs,  and  made  a  pretty  job  for  the  joiner. 
Only  imagine  the  state  of  the  cock-and-hen  com- 
munity during  that  aw7ful  night,  with  a  ceaseless 
battery  of  four  armed  heels  beating  their  poor  de- 
fences down ! 

Meg  was  safe  in  single  harness,  but  in  double  she 
had  a  fault  or  two.  She  would  kick  and  dance  all  the 
way  down  every  steep  hill  —  an  accomplishment  more 
amusing  to  the  bystander  than  to  the  driver,  who, 
perched  on  the  dangerous  pre-eminence  of  the  box, 
had  to  keep  his  horses  well  together  on  the  narrow 
roads,  and  prevent  them,  if  possible,  from  throwing 
him  over  dizzy  precipices  or  into  stony  streams. 
These  tendencies  of  Meg's  led  me  to  be  rather  cau- 
tious with  her,  and  Thursday,  I  suspect,  considered 
me  a  coward  ;  but  as  Thursday  could  not  drive  a  pair 
at  all,  I  never  trusted  the  reins  in  his  hands,  and 


212 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


went  on  in  my  own  cautious,  safe  way,  letting  Meg 
kick  elegantly  down  the  hills,  and  bearing  with 
equal  patience  Mr.  Thursday's  murmurings  of  dis- 
content. 

Kitty  had  only  two  faults.  She  was  extremely  un- 
certain, and  shirked  her  collar  whenever  she  could. 
Poor  Meg,  on  the  contrary,  threw  herself  into  hers 
with  all  her  might,  and  so  drew  for  two.  The  conse- 
quence, of  course,  in  such  cases,  as  in  rowing,  is,  that 
when  one  side  pulls  and  the  other  does  not,  the  vehi- 
cle or  boat  has  a  strong  tendency  to  turn,  which  ten- 
dency may  on  the  water  be  counteracted  by  a  rudder, 
and  on  the  land  by  letting  the  pulling  horse  pull  out 
to  his  own  side  if  you  cannot  whip  the  other  up  to  his 
work.  Such  faults  are  of  less  importance  on  level 
roads,  where  a  good  driver  will  force  an  ill-assorted 
team  to  work  together  at  least  endurably  well ;  but  on 
such  roads  as  that  from  Inveraray  to  Ballahulish,  if 
horses  are  to  do  their  duty  to  each  other  and  their 
master,  there  must  be  some  natural  compatibility  of 
disposition  between  them. 

In  this  particular  journey  that  I  record  here  I  drove 
through  Glen  Urchay  to  the  Black  Mount.  Glen 
Urchay  is  full  of  thoroughly  Highland  scenery,  with 
its  broad  salmon  stream,  and  the  rich  low  land  that  it 
bounds  with  such  beautiful  great  curves  —  land  so 
green  and  soft  and  level,  so  sweet  a  contrast  to  the 
brown  barrenness  of  the  rugged  hills  —  broad  pleas- 
ant pastures,  where  the  picturesque  cattle  feed,  and 
whither  the  wild  deer  descend  in  the  early  morning, 
going  to  the  hills  again  like  the  mist  when  the  sun 
shines  down  in  the  glen. 

And  there  is  a  fine  rocky  landscape  at  the  falls,  as 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


213 


good  as  those  our  landscape-painters  bring  us  from 
Norway.  The  falls  of  the  Urchay  are  not  deep,  but 
they  are  grandly  composed,  and  the  brown  water 
turning  to  yellowish  white,  as  it  creams  up  into  foam 
from  the  deep  pool,  or  dashes  itself  over  the  edge  of 
the  rocky  barrier,  is  well  contrasted  by  rocks  of  a  cold, 
pure  gray,  like  the  gray  of  a  heavy  rain-cloud  that  the 
sun  has  left  at  night.  The  water-sculpture  on  the 
rock  is  also  singularly  fine  at  these  falls,  the  eddy 
holes  so  smoothly  and  delicately  bored,  and  in  such 
numbers.  Every  true  painter  has  an  intense  percep- 
tion of  some  fragment  of  natural  truth  that  nobody  else 
seems  to  care  for ;  but  it  is  really  astonishing  that  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  water-sculpture  should  have  been 
so  little  felt  by  the  most  celebrated  men.  Turner  only 
cared  for  it  occasionally,  and  never  enough  to  paint  it 
in  full  and  perfect  detail.  Of  all  our  living  landscape- 
painters  there  is  only  one  seems  really  to  enjoy  the 
kind  of  sculpture  which  such  a  stream  as  the  Urchay 
can  accomplish  in  innumerable  years.  Mr.  Pettitt 
paints  it  faithfully. 

There  are,  too,  some  grand  Turnerian  streams  from 
the  hills  in  Glen  Urchay,  leaving  when  dry,  as  they 
generally  are  in  summer,  immense  areas  entirely  cov- 
ered with  nothing  but  gray  stones,  such  as  Turner 
loved  so  dearly,  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  such 
good  reason. 

With  good  reason  I  mean  in  the  artistic  sense,  not 
the  carriage-driving  sense.  For  it  so  happened  that 
in  driving  precisely  across  the  most  delightful  of  those 
stony  streams,  I  broke  one  of  my  springs,  and,  there 
being  no  blacksmith  in  those  parts,  had  to  content  my- 
self with  a  piece  of  wood  fitted  to  the  shape  of  the 


214 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


spring,  and  bound  to  it  with  a  bit  of  rope.  This  ele- 
gant and  ingenious  device  did  not  add  to  the  brilliance 
of  my  appearance,  nor  tend  to  increase  that  popular 
respect  which,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  was  with  dif- 
ficulty brought  to  attach  itself  to  my  equipage. 

These  repairs  were  executed  at  the  Black  Mount. 
The  inn  had  one  guest,  and  I  found  him  at  tea,  or  din- 
ner, or  breakfast  number  two,  or  by  whatever  other 
name  you  please  to  call  that  ever-recurring  meal.  He 
had  been  living  ten  days  in  the  inn,  and  had  enjoyed 
tea,  and  ham,  and  eggs  exactly  twenty  times  —  that  is, 
every  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  and  every  evening  at 
six,  with  no  dinner  between.  Such  a  regime  would 
make  an  Englishman  ill,  and  drive  a  Frenchman  mad. 
In  the  case  of  this  unhappy  gentleman  it  was  tempered 
by  moderate  toddy  and  immoderate  tobacco,  or  else  I 
suppose  he  would  have  died  of  it. 

The  next  day  nothing  was  to  be  seen  or  done  on  ac- 
count of  the  rain  ;  so  I  staid  quietly  in  the  inn,  eating 
ham  and  eggs,  drinking  tea,  smoking  tobacco,  and 
chatting  pleasantly  with  my  new  friend. 

At  Bagdad,  I  suppose,  in  the  golden  days  of  good 
Haroun  Alraschid,  the  people  talked  about  the  Caliph  ; 
at  Paris,  in  these  days,  I  have  observed  that  the  Eng- 
lish, who  crowd  the  hotels  under  the  mighty  shadow 
of  the  great  palace,  talk  with  most  pleasure  about  the 
Emperor  ;  at  the  Black  Mount  the  travellers  dwell  with 
delight  on  the  greatness  of  Lord  Breadalbane.  Deny 
it  who  pleases,  great  power  has  an  intense  fascination 
for  us  all.  The  proprietorship  of  land  on  so  vast  a 
scale  as  the  Breadalbane  estate  has  something  in  it  of 
imperial  greatness,  which  awes  and  excites  the  imagi- 
nation.   The  secret  of  the  eager  curiosity  w7hich  all 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


215 


men  feel  concerning  such  personages  is,  that  they 
would  like  to  be  in  their  position,  and  wonder  what  it 
feels  like  to  be  there.  Every  properly-constituted  and 
well-cultivated  man  has  infinite  desires.  Ignorant 
people  when  they  get  money  are  miserable,  because 
they  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  and  so  either 
save  it  without  an  object  or  throw  it  away  in  mere 
follies,  the  most  ignorant  of  all  sometimes  actually 
putting  bank-notes  between  slices  of  bread  and  butter 
and  eating  them,  others  eating  them  only  metaphori- 
cally, but  with  equally  slight  satisfaction.  But  to  a 
cultivated  man  the  revenues  of  an  empire  would  only 
be  a  welcome  power  of  realizing  his  views  on  a  great 
scale,  and  the  income  from  a  great  estate  no  more  than 
a  moderate  and  very  limited  power  of  expressing  his 
ideas  in  things  rather  than  in  mere  words.  The  one 
thing  which  would  please  me  in  great  wealth  would 
be  the  possession  of  noble  works  of  art.  A  poor  man 
only  gets  the  art  which  cheap  processes  may  repro- 
duce. Architecture  and  painting  are  both  hopelessly 
beyond  his  means ;  a  little  wood-carving,  a  plaster 
cast  or  two,  and  a  few  engravings  and  photographs  are 
all  he  can  give  himself.  With  the  profoundest  feeling 
for  great  architecture,  he  is  forced  to  live  in  some 
abominably  ugly  house  that  he  rents,  or  buys,  or  in- 
herits, because  he  cannot  afford  an  artistic  one  ;  with 
a  passionate  love  for  exquisite  color,  he  cannot  pur- 
chase the  work  of  a  single  good  colorist.  It  therefore 
happens  that  the  artistic  instinct,  though  not  usually 
found  in  avaricious,  nor  even  in  quite  prudent  natures, 
has  a  great  need  of  vast  wealth  for  its  full  satisfaction. 
And  as  the  Marquis  of  Breadalbane  is  an  interesting 
person  to  sportsmen,  because  he  possesses  an  enor- 


2l6 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


mous  deer-forest,  so  he  is  not  less  interesting  to  lovers 
of  art,  because  he  is  rich  enough  to  buy  fine  Land- 
seers.  To  so  hearty  a  lover  of  Highland  scenery  as  I 
am  he  has  another  very  unusual  object  of  envy,  —  he 
possesses  thousands  of  most  glorious  natural  land- 
scapes. His  estate,  being  so  rich  in  scenery,  has,  to  a 
true  painter,  a  magic  far  beyond  the  magic  of  mere 
wealth.  An  estate  of  equal  value  at  Manchester 
would  not  magnetize  a  painter's  imagination  at  all. 
But  this  wonderful  proprietor,  who  really  owns  such 
mountains  as  Ben  Lawers,  such  castles  as  Kilchurn, 
such  lakes  as  Loch  Tay  and  Loch  Tulla,  is  to  our 
minds  associated  with  all  their  splendors,  and  it  fool- 
ishly seems  to  us  that  every  free  wreath  of  mist,  and 
every  steadfast  granite  crest,  must  know,  as  we  know, 
that  it  has  for  its  legal  master  the  courtly  chief  of 
Breadalbane. 

What  interests  most  Englishmen  in  the  empire  of 
Breadalbane  is  not,  however,  the  landscapes,  but  the 
deer.  Their  number  —  a  good  deal  exaggerated  by 
popular  rumor — is,  in  reality,  perhaps  about  seven 
thousand,  five  thousand  having  been  counted  at  the 
last  census.  The  deer  census  in  the  forest  is  taken,  of 
course,  all  in  one  day,  like  the  census  of  the  human 
population.  When  the  country  is  all  covered  over 
with  snow,  a  day  is  fixed,  and  the  foresters  go  out, 
each  alone  on  his  appointed  route,  bringing  in  their 
returns  at  night. 

A  wonderful  sight  at  the  Black  Mount  is  a  grand 
drive  of  the  deer.  One  of  the  grandest  took  place  a 
little  time  ago  for  the  pleasure  of  a  foreign  prince, 
then  staying  at  Balmoral,  to  whom  the  marquis 
wished  to  show  some  lordly  Highland  sport.  The 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


217 


head-forester,  Robinson,  had  only  forty-eight  hours 
to  gather  the  deer  from  all  their  wild  fastnesses  in 
the  mountains  ;  but  himself  fixed  the  hour  when  the 
prince  should  see  them  pass.  The  time  fixed  was  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  prince  arrived  at  Loch 
Tulla  at  two  minutes  after  twelve.  When  the  royal 
carriages  stopped  at  the  lodge,  Robinson  took  a  white 
pocket-handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  fluttered  it 
for  a  few  seconds  in  the  air.  From  far  distant  points 
on  the  hills  twelve  invisible  foresters  were  all  levelling 
their  telescopes  at  the  lodge,  and  all  saw  Peter's  sig- 
nal ;  then  they  knew  that  the  prince  had  come,  and 
the  drive  began.  Peter  was  sure  that  the  deer  would 
pass  the  point  he  had  reserved  for  the  prince  at  two 
o'clock  precisely  ;  so,  conducting  him  to  the  pass,  he 
waited  quietly,  looking  perfectly  cool  and  satisfied. 

At  five  minutes  before  two  an  officer  in  waiting  on 
the  prince  looked  at  his  watch  and  said,  "  The  deer 
cannot  be  here  in  time,"  for  not  a  horn  was  in  sight. 
Robinson  answered  quietly,  "  Please  look  there,  sir," 
pointing  to  the  entrance  to  the  pass.  Something  dark 
was  agitating  itself  in  the  distance  :  a  forest  of  antlers 
came  tumultuously  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  mingling 
their  dark  branches  like  the  branches  of  a  forest  when 
a  hurricane  tears  over  it ;  and  at  two  o'clock  precisely, 
nearly  a  thousand  deer  were  bounding  and  rushing  be- 
fore the  astonished  count,  every  head  of  them  coming 
within  range  of  his  rifle. 

The  same  Peter  Robinson  showed  me  a  fine  brood 
of  young  peregrine  falcons  that  he  was  keeping  for  the 
use  of  a  great  Indian  maharajah  who  passes  some  time 
every  year  in  the  Highlands.  These  peregrines  were 
all  fine  young  birds,  with  soft  white  down,  and  dark 


2l8 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


eyes,  and  a  very  ferocious  expression,  as  if,  with  the 
precocity  of  cruelty,  they  had  all  the  desire  to  tear 
one's  eyes  out;  and  only  regretted  that  they  had  no 
wings  yet. 

This  Indian  maharajah  is  passionately  fond  of  fal- 
conry ;  and  a  very  interesting  sport  it  would  be,  I  dare 
say,  only  the  hawks  often  fly  away,  and  despise  all  the 
allurements  of  the  lure.  A  great  foreign  prince  came 
to  witness  the  sport  of  falconry  as  practised  by  this 
Indian  magnate.  This  being  a  state  occasion,  gos- 
hawks of  a  wonderful  breed  were  to  be  exhibited. 
The  first  goshawk,  it  is  said,  being  launched  at  the 
flying  game,  paid  no  attention  to  it,  but  sat  down 
quietly  on  a  stone. 

It  is  said  that  this  prince  gives  such  quantities  of 
physic  to  his  hawks  that  he  seriously  inconvenienced 
the  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  Killin  by  exhausting  the 
doctor's  medicinal  stores ;  and  the  doctor  found  that, 
instead  of  purging  good  Christians,  he  had  to  keep  in 
a  state  of  healthy  digestive  activity  the  ferocious 
stomachs  of  innumerable  birds  of  prey. 

And,  if  the  birds  wanted  physic,  the  Arab  falconers 
wanted  opium.  By  the  by,  apropos  of  Arab  falconers, 
a  stranger  coming  to  witness  the  sport  spoke  to  one 
of  those  mysterious  and  romantic  Orientals,  doubtful 
whether  his  English  would  be  understood,  but  was  de- 
lightfully disappointed  when  the  Arab  answered  him 
in  a  pleasant  Irish  brogue  of  the  fullest  flavor.  Some 
of  these  Arabs  are  of  the  genuine  race,  and  eat  opium 
(so  they  say)  as  we  eat  bread  and  butter.  Two  of 
them,  ignorant  of  English,  went  to  the  doctor  to  buy  a 
bit  of  opium,  and  employed  to  that  intent  all  the  elo- 
quence of  signs.    But  the  doctor,  being  an  Orientalist, 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens, 


219 


and  having  travelled  in  .the  East,  spoke  to  them  in 
Arabic,  and  even  gave  them  a  big  lump  of  opium, 
on  which  they  loaded  him  with  expressions  of  bound- 
less love  and  veneration. 

Of  course,  the  gamekeepers  think  this  falconry 
very  unsportsman-like,  and  class  all  the  finest  pere- 
grines, goshawks,  or  gerfalcons,  together,  as  wretch- 
ed vermin,  fit  only  to  be.  shot  and  nailed  up  on  a 
rail.  However,  as  the  maharajah  gives  ten  shillings 
apiece  for  all  young  falcons,  the  keepers  suppress 
their  feelings  of  contempt  for  the  donor,  and  pocket 
the  ten  shillings.  It  is  curious  to  reflect  on  the  dif- 
ferent estimation  in  which  a  peregrine  falcon  is  held 
by  a  keeper  of  our  day  and  a  nobleman's  forester  in 
the  middle  ages.  In  those  days  a  man  would  as  soon 
have  shot  a  good  hunter  as  a  peregrine. 

The  maharajah  is  said  to  be  an  excellent  Christian, 
and  leads  the  life  of  a  true  English  gentleman,  sport- 
ing on  week-days  and  going  regularly  to  church  on 
Sundays,  on  which  occasions  he  appears  in  various 
costumes,  as  fancy  dictates.  I  have  heard  of  an 
amusing  combination  of  brilliant  Indian  diamonds 
with  homely  Scottish  trews. 

The  consequence  of  his  visits  to  the  Highlands  is, 
that  everybody  is  after  peregrines.  Since  the  young 
birds  are  now  worth  ten  shillings  a  head,  a  nest  is  a 
great  prize.  Seeking  the  nests  is,  however,  rather 
a  perilous  employment;  and  the  maharajah's  own 
falconer  being  on  one  occasion  suspended  over  a 
rocky  abyss,  it  wras  found  quite  impossible  to  pull  him 
up  again.  So  he  climbed  up  the  rope,  hand  over 
hand,  with  his  peregrines  in  .his  pocket. 

On  quitting  the  inn  at  the  Black  Mount,  an  un- 


220 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


foreseen  accident  compelled  me  to  return  to  its  tea 
and  ham  and  eggs  for  twenty-four  hours  longer. 

It  occurred  to  me  that,  as  the  wagon  was  rather 
heavily  laden,  I  would  leave  one  or  two  articles  of 
camp  furniture  behind  me  in  charge  of  the  innkeeper ; 
and  to  that  intent  I  turned  the  vehicle.  Meg,  how- 
ever, being  impatient  of  the  stoppage,  gave  a  sudden 
twist,  and  damaged  the  connecting  rod  of  the  break, 
so  as  to  render  it  utterly  unsafe.  The  frightful  idea 
of  this  connecting  rod  breaking  as  we  were  going 
down  Glen  Coe,  decided  me  to  have  it  welded  again. 
On  taking  it  off,  I  broke  it  easily  at  the  damaged 
place  ;  and  Thursday  rode  off  with  it  to  Tyndrum, 
a  distance  of  ten  miles,  wThere  he  got  it  solidly  welded. 
Whilst  Thursday  was  at  the  smith's  I  made  a  study 
of  Loch  Tulla. 

I  began  to  hanker  after  a  dinner,  and  thought  of 
opening  my  provision  boxes ;  but,  remembering  that 
I  had  lonely  glens  to  explore  and  illustrate,  where  no 
dinners  were  to  be  found,  I  reserved  these,  and  tried 
what  was  to  be  done  with  the  landlord.  When  you 
ask  the  landlord  of  a  Highland  inn  for  a  dinner,  any 
time  out  of  the  regular  tourist  season,  he  always 
seems  astonished  at  so  extraordinary  a  proposition. 
His  senses  do  not  readily  receive  it ;  a  painful  vacuity 
spreads  over  his  otherwise  intelligent  countenance. 
When,  at  last,  the  idea  comes ,  home  to  him,  that 
the  traveller  really  desires  so  exceptional  a  meal,  a 
melancholy  sadness  and  embarrassment  settle  there  ; 
and  you  hear  faint,  inarticulate  murmurs  on  his  lips, 
which  invariably  end  in  an  ignominious  and  pre- 
cipitate flight,  whose  poor  pretext  is  to  see  what  the 
house  contains.    If  you  persecute  the  man  no  more, 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens, 


221 


he  will  certainly  not  reappear,  only  too  delighted  to 
be  rid  of  your  importunities  at  so  easy  a  cost  of  inven- 
tion ;  but  if,  on  the  contrary,  you  pursue  him  into  his 
own  fastnesses,  he  puts  a  bold  front  on  the  matter, 
stands  his  ground  like  a  stag  at  bay,  and  tells  you  that 
there  is  "  mutton  ham,  and  pork  ham,  and  eggs,  and 
—  and  —  cheese  —  and  —  and  —  and  —  99 

At  last  the  traveller  loses  all  patience,  and,  if  a 
man  of  experience  and  wisdom,  says  he  won't  have 
any  dinner  ;  but  only  some  tea,  with  ham  and  eggs  to 
it,  which  is,  in  fact,  the  one  meal  the  house  contains. 
On  this  announcement,  the  visage  of  the  host  shines 
with  sudden  satisfaction  and  relief,  and  the  simple 
repast  is  prepared  with  alacrity. 

The  next  morning  we  got  away  from  Loch  Tulla,  . 
and  drove  to  the  King's  House  Inn.  The  highest 
point  of  the  road  from  the  Black  Mount  to  the  King's 
House  is  said  to  be  the  highest  public  road  in  Great 
Britain.  The  descent  from  that  point  to  King's 
House  afforded  Meg  a  delightful  opportunity  for  he 
display  of  her  agility  ;  and  she  capered  and  kicked 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  to  the  imminent  danger 
of  our  lives.  On  coming  to  one  little  bridge,  she 
started  aside  suddenly,  and  nearly  upset  us  over  the 
little  parapet,  which  the  wheels  grazed  as  we  passed. 

At  King's  House  I  got  an  uncommonly  good  dinner 
for  the  time  of  the  year,  with  real  bread  to  it,  and 
fresh  meat,  and  other  dainties  all  unknown  at  the 
Black  Mount.  As  for  Thursday,  he  got  a  wonderful 
feed,  and  received  such  a  degree  of  attention  as  fairly 
overwhelmed  him.  He  was  altogether  comble.  He 
could  not  do  justice  to  all  the  good  things  set  before 
him.     As  for  the  horses,  they  fed  abundantly  on 


222 


A  Long  Drive  in  tJie  Glens. 


corn  and  hay  in  the  stable  ;  and  the  bill  for  all  this 
amounted  to  the  moderate  sum  of  four  shillings  and 
sevenpence. 

I  pitched  my  tent  in  Glen  Coe,  and  got  a  careful 
study  before  night.  The  sunset  in  the  glen  was  truly 
magnificent,  and  the  rocky  hills  opposite  the  sunset 
glowed  with  crimson  light.  The  scenery  of  Glen  Coe 
is  very  like  that  of  the  corrie  of  Ben  Cruachan,  and 
nearly,  I  imagine,  on  a  level  with  it.  The  truth  is, 
that  the  road  here  carries  a  stream  of  tourists  through 
the  upper  mountain  scenery.  At  Loch  Awe  you 
may  climb  up  into  such  scenery ;  but  the  roads  do 
not  carry  you  there.  The  landscape  in  Glen  Coe  is 
therefore  good  for  the  study  of  upper  mountain-form, 
seen  quite  near  at  hand  ;  especially  good  for  granite 
precipices,  which  exist  here  in  perfection.  For  color, 
the  reddish  rock,  heightened  to  crimson  by  the  sunset 
light,  and  contrasted  against  a  pure  green  sky,  as  I 
saw  it  that  evening,  is  as  fine  as  anything  in  mountain 
color  can  be.  There  is  a  striking  grandeur  of  line  in 
the  mountain  forms  at  Glen  Coe,  and  this  quality, 
together  with  the  infinity  of  detail  and  the  intense 
clearness  of  the  mountain  air,  kept  John  Lewis  con- 
tinually in  my  thoughts. 

There  are  times  in  our  lives  which  we  look  back 
upon  with  infinite  pleasure  not  unmingled  with  mel- 
ancholy ;  times,  as  it  seems  to  us,  of  almost  perfect 
happiness,  full  of  calm  and  peace,  sweet  halting- 
places  in  the  weary  pilgrimage  of  life.  These  days 
I  passed  in  Glen  Coe  are,  to  me,  one  of  those  ever- 
remembered  times.  I  remember  all  I  did  and  all  I 
thought  so  vividly  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could 
narrate  the  minutest  details  of  every  hour  that  passed. 


A  Long  Drive  hi  the  Glens, 


223 


Splendid  weather,  long,  hard  days  of  happy  and  suc- 
cessful labor,  perfect  peace  all  day  and  quiet  rest  in 
the  lonely  tent  at  night ;  all  this,  too,  in  the  very  finest 
scenery  in  Great  Britain :  was  it  not  glorious?  Soli- 
tary and  laborious  as  my  simple  existence  was,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  draw  till  eye  and  hand  were  weary, 
and  no  one  to  talk  to  but  one  poor  faithful  servant,  I 
would  not  have  exchanged  it,  day  against  day,  for  the 
life  of  the  wealthiest  noble  in  Belgravia  ! 

Whilst  I  was  busy  with  my  work  that  evening, 
Thursday  set  up  my  tent  on  a  beautiful  green  natural 
lawn,  bounded  by  a  little  crystalline  stream.  There 
the  tethered  horses  fed,  and  Thursday  prepared  my 
tea,  and  spread  it  luxuriously  on  a  white  table-cloth, 
the  table  being  my  great  box  for  studies. 

After  tea,  of  course  it  was  necessary  to  smoke  the 
inevitable  pipe.  The  seductions  of  tobacco,  easily 
resisted  in  a  house,  are  absolutely  irresistible  in  a 
tent.  I  think  it  is  the  fresh  air  that  gives  me  such 
a  mighty  appetite  for  a  pipe  ;  but  the  certain  fact  is, 
that  when  in  camp  I  cannot  help  smoking,  nor  do 
I  think  anybody  else  could  —  unless  it  made  him  sick. 

I  find  the  following  observations  on  the  subject  of 
smoking  in  my  note-book,  and  as  they  were  really 
written  in  my  tent  on  this  particular  excursion,  they 
will  not  be  out  of  place  if  I  insert  them  here. 

People  who  don't  smoke  —  especially  ladies  —  are 
exceedingly  unfair  and  unjust  to  those  who  do.  The 
reader  has,  I  dare  say,  amongst  his  acquaintance, 
ladies  who,  on  hearing  any  habitual  cigar-smoker 
spoken  of,  are  always  ready  to  exclaim  against  the 
enormity  of  such  an  expensive  and  useless  indul- 
gence, and  the  cost  of  tobacco-smoking  is  generally 


224 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


cited  by  its  enemies  as  one  of  the  strongest  reasons 
for  its  general  discontinuance.  One  would  imagine, 
to  hear  these  people  talk,  that  smoking  was  the  only 
selfish  indulgence  in  the  world.  When  people  argue 
in  this  strain,  I  immediately  assume  the  offensive. 
I  roll  back  the  tide  of  war  right  into  the  enemy's 
intrenched  camp  of  comfortable  customs ;  I  attack 
the  expensive  and  unnecessary  indulgences  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  do  not  smoke.  I  take  cigar- 
smoking  as  an  expense  of,  say  half-a-crown  a  day, 
and  pipe-smoking  at  threepence.  I  then  compare 
the  cost  of  these  indulgences  with  the  cost  of  other 
indulgences,  not  a  whit  more  necessary,  which  no  one 
ever  questions  a  man's  right  to  if  he  can  pay  for  them. 
There  is  luxurious  eating,  for  instance.  A  woman 
who  has  got  the  habit  of  delicate  eating  will  easily 
consume  dainties  to  the  amount  of  half-a-crown  a 
day,  which  cannot  possibly  do  her  any  good  beyond 
the  mere  gratification  of  the  palate.  And  there  is  the 
luxury  of  carriage-keeping,  in  many  instances  very 
detrimental  to  the  health  of  women,  by  entirely  de- 
priving them  of  the  use  of  their  legs.  Now,  you  can- 
not keep  a  carriage  a-going  quite  as  cheaply  as  a  pipe. 
Many  a  fine  meerschaum  keeps  up  its  cheerful  fire  on 
a  shilling  a  week.  I  am  not  advocating  a  sumptuary 
law  to  put  down  carriages  and  cookery  ;  I  desire  only 
to  say  that  people  who  indulge  in  these  expensive 
and  wholly  superfluous  luxuries  have  no  right  to  be 
so  very  hard  on  smokers  for  their  indulgence.  Then 
there  is  wine.  Nearly  every  gentleman  who  drinks 
good  wine  at  all  will  drink  the  value  of  half-a-crown 
a  day.  The  ladies  do  not  blame  him  for  this.  Half- 
a-dozen  glasses  of  good  wine  are  not  thought  an 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


225 


extravagance  in  any  man  of  fair  means ;  but  women 
exclaim  when  a  man  spends  the  same  amount  in  smok- 
ing cigars.  The  French  habit  of  coffee-drinking  and 
the  English  habit  of  tea-drinking  are  also  cases  in  point. 
They  are  quite  as  expensive  as  ordinary  tobacco-smok- 
ing, and,  like  it,  defensible  only  on  the  ground  of  the 
pleasurable  sensation  they  communicate  to  the  nervous 
system.  But  these  habits  are  so  universal  that  no  one 
thinks  of  attacking  them,  unless  now  and  then  some 
persecuted  smoker  in  self-defence.  Tea  and  tobacco 
are  alike  seductive,  delicious,  and  —  deleterious.  The 
two  indulgences  will,  perhaps,  become  equally  neces- 
sary to  the  English  world.  It  is  high  treason  to  the 
English  national  feeling  to  say  a  word  against  tea, 
which  is  now  so  universally  recognized  as  a  national 
beverage  that  people  forget  that  it  comes  from  China, 
and  is  both  alien  and  heathen.  Still,  I  mean  no 
offence  when  I  put  tea  in  the  same  category  with 
tobacco.  Now,  who  thinks  of  lecturing  us  on  the 
costliness  of  tea?  And  yet  it  is  a  mere  superfluity. 
The  habit  of  taking  it  as  we  do  is  unknown  across  the 
Channel,  and  was  quite  unknown  amongst  ourselves  a 
very  little  time  ago,  when  English  people  were  no  less 
proud  of  themselves  and  their  customs  than  they  are 
now,  and  perhaps  with  equally  good  reason. 

A  friend  of  mine  tells  me  that  he  smokes  every  day 
at  a  cost  of  about  sixpence  a  week.  Now,  I  should 
like  to  know  in  what  other  way  so  much  enjoyment  is 
to  be  bought  for  sixpence.  Fancy  the  satisfaction  of 
spending  sixpence  a  week  in  wine  !  It  is  well  enough 
to  preach  about  the  selfishness  of  this  expenditure  ; 
but  we  all  spend  money  selfishly,  and  we  all  love 
pleasure ;  and  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  that 
IS 


226 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


cynic  whose  pleasures  cost  less  than  sixpence  a 
week.* 

Besides,  tobacco  is  good  for  the  wTits,  and  makes 
us  moralize.  All  the  above  sagacious  observations 
came  out  of  a  single  pipe  of  tobacco  (Duncan's  mix- 
ture, Buchanan  Street,  Glasgow  —  famous  tobacco  to 
smoke)  ;  and  the  cleverest  parts  of  many  clever  books 
and  review  articles  are  all  tobacco. 

Next  morning  I  got  up  very  early,  and  was  hard  at 
work  drawing  before  breakfast.  When  the  sun  be- 
came warmer,  I  began  to  64  feel  more  jolly,"  as  Cam- 
bridge men  have  it.  Thursday  served  me  a  very 
comfortable  and  even  elegant  breakfast  outside  the 
tent.  He  has  one  great  merit  as  a  domestic  —  he 
keeps  his  silver  remarkably  clean.  Not  a  nobleman 
in  England  has  brighter  spoons  and  forks  than  I  had 
out  in  the  wilderness.  I  carmot  say  as  much  for 
Thursday's  management  of  horses :  he  hates  the 
trouble  of  them  ;  he  is  always  muttering  to  himself 
all  manner  of  dreadful  imprecations  against  the  poor 
brutes.  When  he  is  about  them,  he  never  ceases  talk- 
ing to  them,  telling  them  they  are  going  to  have  a 
hard  day's  work,  and  making  other  observations  of  an 
equally  pleasing  character.  Towards  night,  when  in 
camp,  Thursday  becomes  very  anxious  about  the 
horses,  foreseeing  a  good  deal  of  trouble  with  them  : 
this  anxiety  escapes  in  murmurings,  addressed  alter- 
nately to  himself  and  to  them.  If  we  could  have 
conducted  the  expedition  without  the  aid  of  horses, 

*  It  is  needless  to  allude  to  field  sports  and  luxurious  dress, 
whose  enormous  cost  bears  no  more  proportion  to  the  cost  of 
smoking  than  Chateau  Margaux  to  small  beer,  or  turtle  soup 
to  Scotch  broth. 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


227 


Thursday  would  have  been  much  happier,  and  in  a 
far  better  temper. 

That  day,  when  I  had  done  my  study,  Thursday  and 
I  led  the  horses  all  down  the  worst  part  of  the  glen, 
and  I  resumed  the  reins  only  when  Meg's  ways  were 
not  likely  to  be  very  dangerous.  It  would  have  been 
perfect  madness  to  drive  her  down  Glen  Coe  without 
a  break  of  sufficient  strength  to  stop  the  wagon  alto- 
gether, considering  how  heavily  it  was  laden,  and  how 
steep  the  road  wras.  The  weather  continued  splendid, 
and  extremely  hot,  and  my  impression  of  the  central 
scene  in  Glen  Coe  was  so  powerful,  that  as  I  drove 
forward  to  Ballahulish,  I  did  nothing  but  regret  not 
having  staid  there. 

The  truth  is,  that  in  noble  scenery,  five  miles  a  day 
is  as  much  as  any  painter  ought  to  travel.  The  right 
thing  for  a  painter  is  to  go  on  foot  in  a  good  climate 
(this,  of  course,  excludes  the  Highlands  altogether)  ; 
and  if  the  country  is  lonely,  let  him  take  a  tent  and  a 
stock  of  provisions,  in  a  strong,  common  cart,  with 
one  strong  horse  to  draw  it. 

I  staid  at  the  inn  at  Ballahulish.  When  I  asked 
for  bedrooms  there  was  no  alacrity  to  receive  me, 
not  the  slightest  attempt  at  politeness,  not  even  com- 
mon civility.  It  was  all  the  wagon  (Thursday  said), 
that  unlucky,  plain,  wine-colored  wagon.  If  it  had 
had  varnish  and  red  lines,  and  a  bit  of  electro-plate 
about  the  harness,  the  waiters  would  probably  have 
been  civil ;  if  instead  of  the  wagon  I  had  brought  a 
pretty  pony  carriage  with  me,  the  waiters  would  have 
fawned  like  little  dogs,  and  the  hostess  welcomed  me 
with  humble  but  warm-hearted  hospitality.  So  that  a 
philosopher  who  despises  frippery  in  itself  may  philo- 


228 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


sophically  adopt  it  in  order  to  command  civility.  No 
one  cares  less  for  unmeaning  finish  in  ugly  things  than 
I  do  ;  no  one  has  less  enjoyment  in  vulgar  splendors  ; 
no  one  contents  himself  more  easily  with  plain,  rude 
things  for  common  service  ;  and  yet  the  next  turn-out  I 
set  up  shall  have  neat  red  lines  and  varnish,  ay,  and 
electro-plate  too  ;  for  the  respect  of  the  people  is  con- 
venient, though  contemptible  ;  and  it  is,  on  the  whole, 
pleasanter  to  be  treated  with  servility,  though  it  be 
base,  than  scorn,  however  groundless. 

The  next  day  rose  so  clear  and  splendid  that  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  Glen  Coe,  and  long  to  be  back 
again  in  the  very  heart  of  it.  Loch  Leven  from  Bal- 
lahulish  is  lovely  enough,  very  grand  both  up  and 
down,  and  the  mountains  rise  nobly  out  of  the  sea. 
Still,  though  the  water  was  so  blue  and  lovely,  and  the 
hills  covered  with  such  rich  greens,  and  such  delicate 
grays  and  purples,  and  in  the  far  distance  such  a  per- 
fectly exquisite  azure,  and  though  the  white  sails  of  a 
stately  yacht  shone  out  against  the  mountain  that  rose 
out  of  the  sea,  suggesting  pleasant  possibilities  of  sail- 
ing, in  spite  of  all  these  attractions,  and  in  spite  of  the 
hope  of  getting  a  good  study  of  Ben  Nevis,  I  found 
that  all  the  time  I  was  making  my  study  of  Loch 
Leven  I  could  think  of  Glen  Coe  only.  I  wished 
especially  to  make  two  studies  there,  and  would  will- 
ingly have  paid  five  pounds  an  hour  for  fine  weather 
to  do  them  in.  I  had  been  longing  for  those  studies 
for  years,  and  now  a  fair  chance  of  obtaining  them 
seemed  to  lie  before  me.  So,  after  working  all  day  at 
Loch  Leven,  I  trotted  quietly  back  in  the  evening  to 
the  banks  of  the  black  lake  in  Glen  Coe,  and  there 
under  the  shadow  of  its  dark  precipices  my  tent  was 
pitched  at  night. 


A  Long  Drive  hi  the  Glens. 


229 


As  the  reader  probably  knows,  there  is  a  great  slate 
quarry  at  Ballahulish,  and  this  slate  quarry  produced 
phenomena  so  entirely  new  to  my  horses  that  they 
were  anything  but  pleasant  to  drive.  Fortunately  the 
hours  of  blasting  wrere  over  for  that  day ;  but  Meg 
and  Kitty  found  much  material  for  wonder  and  ex- 
citement in  passing  through  the  quarry  and  its  village, 
and  the  only  way  of  crossing  the  little  tramway  which 
these  foolish  horses  could  discover  was  to  leap  over  it. 
If  they  had  leaped  both  together  it  would  not  have 
mattered  ;  but  Kitty  hesitated  whilst  Meg  jumped,  and 
between  them  they  nearly  upset  us. 

Thursday's  great  anxiety  being,  as  usual,  to  get  rid 
of  the  horses  as  soon  as  possible,  he  took  them  to  a 
lonely  shepherd's  house  in  the  glen,  and  then  devoted 
his  undisturbed  attention  to  the  preparation  of  my 
supper.  By  the  time  I  had  finished  it,  the  moon  looked 
down  on  the  little  tent  across  the  stony  summits  of  the 
mountain,  and  a  glorious  night  began,  so  grand,  and 
solemn,  and  lonely,  that  I  could  have  staid  out  in  it, 
and  sauntered  by  the  shore  of  the  gloomy  lake  till 
dawn.  As  this  pleasure,  however,  would  probably 
have  cost  me  several  hours  of  good  daylight  on  the 
following  day,  and  consequently  so  much  work,  I  re- 
nounced it,  and  only  staid  out  in  the  moonlight  long 
enough  to  let  myself  get  thoroughly  impressed  by  the 
effect,  and  to  ascertain  such  facts  as  were  necessary 
to  its  future  realization  on  canvas. 

I  was  at  work  early  in  the  morning,  and  kept  at  it 
till  evening.  About  noon,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the 
subject  reached  its  highest  perfection  as  an  effect  of 
serene  summer  weather.  The  sun  was  extremely  hot, 
and  the  day  brilliant  to  the  utmost  possible  degree. 


230 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Gleits, 


The  subject  is  a  very  noble  one,  and  I  intend  it  for  a 
great  picture.  Here  is  a  word-picture  of  it,  accurate 
as  far  as  it  goes,  but  necessarily  very  imperfect,  as 
word-pictures  always  are. 

The  lake  is  a  small  one,  and  probably  very  deep  ;  the 
color  of  the  water,  stained  by  the  moss-land,  becomes 
intensely  gloomy  in  the  lake.  Contrasting  vividly 
with  this  dark  color  are  the  hues  of  the  flat  alluvial 
land  near  the  lake.  These  consist  of  perfectly  white 
sand,  passing  into  grayish  and  pinkish  sand  in  subtle 
gradations.  This  sand  lies  broad  on  the  river's  banks. 
Beyond  the  river,  and  immediately  under  the  mountain, 
is  rich  green  meadow  grass  ;  and  nearer  to  the  spec- 
tator, on  his  own  side  of  the  stream,  there  are  patches 
of  pale  bright  emerald  grass  ;  nearer  still,  great  fields 
of  small  stones,  chiefly  of  a  pale  purple  color,  and  in 
the  immediate  foreground  dark  green  grass  again,  but 
this  time  rough  and  poor.  ' 

Imagine  all  these  colors  infinitely  heightened  by  the 
intensest  sunshine,  and  opposed  to  a  lake  that  looked 
about  the  color  of  Vandyke  brown  as  it  is  squeezed 
out  of  a  tube,  and  you  may  have  some  vague  idea  of 
the  vivid  splendors  of  the  foreground. 

Then  immediately  out  of  the  lake,  and  out  of  the 
alluvial  land  to  the  left  of  the  spectator,  land  just  as 
flat  as  the  lake  itself,  rose,  almost  perpendicularly,  a 
tremendous  precipice  ;  and  behind  this  precipice,  look- 
ing over  it  as  a  man  looks  over  a  low  garden  wall, 
rose  a  great  rough  stony  peak,  all  its  rich  rock  detail 
clearly  visible,  and  its  barren  edges  cutting  out  sharply 
on  the  sky,  with  little  fields  of  snow  in  its  cool  granite 
hollows,  dying  away  imperceptibly  day  by  day  in  the 
hot  sun,  and  trickling  down  to  their  low  grave  in  the 
black  lake  by  silent,  invisible  streamlets. 


A  Long  Drive  i?i  the  Glens. 


231 


And  the  great  precipice,  how  glorious  in  strength 
of  structural  form,  and  painted  delicacy  of  exquisite 
color  !  In  structure  like  the  side  of  a  cathedral,  alter- 
nately vertical  wall  and  steep  sloping  roof ;  only  that 
here  the  alternation  is  repeated  seven  times  instead  of 
twice.  In  color  thus  :  —  the  steep  slopes  all  delicate 
green  or  pale  purple  as  they  are  clothed  with  thin 
grass  or  covered  with  purple  debris  of  the  cliff ;  and 
then  the  vertical  walls,  full  of  infinite  variety  of  yel- 
lowish, reddish,  and  bluish  gray,  shining  here  and 
there  with  silvery  mica,  as  if  powdered  with  millions 
of  minute  diamonds. 

And  the  great  broad  shadows  upon  its  mighty  front, 
how  they  veiled  it  with  cool  depth  of  solemn  gloom, 
last  lingering  fragments  of  the  night  clinging  to  the 
sheltering  cliffs  !  For  night  lingers  under  their  shad- 
ow}7 walls  as  winter  in  their  fields  of  snow. 

I  drew  it  line  for  line,  and  fissure  for  fissure,  till  the 
last  red  light  of  the  sunset  had  faded  from  its  clear 
and  silent  heights.  Then,  in  the  twilight,  we  drove 
on  to  the  great  central  scene  in  Glen  Coe,  the  noblest 
and  grandest  of  the  whole  glen.  Never  hunter  was 
more  keenly  eager  after  an  antlered  king  of  stags  than 
I  for  that  glorious  scene.  The  night  became  cloudy 
and  dull,  and  I  passed  it  in  almost  sleepless  anxiety. 
I  would  have  given  a  hundred  pounds  for  three  fine 
days,  and  strength  to  labor  every  daylight  hour. 

Poor  Thursday  had  gone  on  to  King's  House  in  the 
dark  with  the  horses,  leading  Kitty  and  riding  Meg. 
They  took  him  off  the  road  several  times,  and,  I 
imagine,  played  him  some  unpleasant  tricks.  How- 
ever, he  got  back  to  the  camp  about  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  in  a  state  of  great  weariness,  but  sound  of 
limb. 


232 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


The  next  morning  at  six  o'clock,  when  I  looked  out 
on  my  subject,  it  seemed  probable  that  the  day  would 
turn  out  well  —  probable,  but  by  no  means  certain.  At 
eight,  however,  it  was  clearer,  and  at  nine  perfectly 
cloudless,  clear,  and  splendid  ;  and  so  it  continued  the 
whole  of  that  day  and  the  day  after. 

When  I  am  in  camp  in  fine  wreather  the  morning 
bath  is  the  luxury  I  most  enjoy.  How  different  to 
dabbling  in  one's  shallow  sponge-bath,  in  a  chilly 
dressing-room,  is  a  plunge  in  the  clear  pale  green 
depths  of  a  sunlighted  granite  pool !  Those  morning 
baths  in  Glen  Coe  I  shall  never  forget  whilst  I  live. 
Water  clearer  than  crystal,  and  pure  as  the  mountain 
air,  contained  in  great  natural  basins  of  smooth  granite 
rock,  rose-colored,  or  pale  tender  gray,  and  so  lonely 
that  no  living  thing  can  see  you,  except  the  falcon  that 
flies  in  the  blue  air  above,  or  the  fishes  that  dart 
through  the  transparent  water. 

And  here  is  the  central  scene,  the  noblest  picture  in 
Glen  Coe. 

A  sharply  curving  road,  with  a  bridge  spanning  a 
torrent  in  the  foreground,  the  road  sustained  by  great 
walls  on  the  side  of  the  precipice,  but  without  parapet, 
except  a  low  one  on  the  bridge  itself.  The  curves  of 
the  road  are  extremely  beautiful  and  complex.  In  the 
space  of  a  hundred  yards  there  is  a  sharp  curve  to  the 
right,  then  a  slight  one  to  the  left,  and  after  that  an- 
other gentler  curve  to  the  right  again.  In  the  same 
space  the  road  ascends  and  descends  and  ascends 
again,  the  complication  of  the  two  sets  of  curves  being 
as  beautiful  as  anything  well  can  be  in  mere  road  cur- 
vature. 

The  foreground  is  made  very  rich  with  the  rocky 


A  Long  Drive  iii  the  Glens. 


233 


ravine  containing  the  stream  which  the  bridge  crosses. 
A  second  stream  of  less  importance  runs  side  by  side 
with  this,  but  still  nearer  to  the  spectator,  and  falls 
into  it  soon  after  passing  under  the  road.  Several 
hundred  feet  below,  down  in  the  valley,  a  third  very 
beautiful  stream,  with  precipitous  granite  banks,  joins 
these,  coming  into  the  picture  at  the  spectator's  left 
hand.  A  fourth  stream,  in  a  succession  of  waterfalls, 
descends  a  great  mountain  exactly  opposite  the  specta- 
tor, and  this  fourth  stream  is  richly  bordered  by  beau- 
ful  trees.  These  four  streams  meet  together  in  a  spot 
some  hundred  feet  below  the  one  where  my  tent  was 
pitched,  and  then  run  together  down  the  glen  in  one 
fine  falling  torrent,  which  afterwards  becomes  a  wind- 
ing river  in  the  valley,  feeds  the  black  Lake  Treachtan, 
and  then  runs  on  to  the  sea.  This  river  is  the  Cona 
of  Ossian. 

The  mountain-forms  which  fill  the  rest  of  the  picture 
are  three  buttresses  belonging  to  the  great  mountain 
on  your  left,  as  you  descend  the  glen  from  King's 
House  to  Ballahulish.  In  the  openings  between  these 
buttresses  appears  the  upper  structure  of  the  moun- 
tain, exactly  as  the  spires  and  roof  of  a  Gothic  build- 
ing appear  above  and  between  the  projections  of  its 
lower  walls  when  the  spectator  is  standing  near. 

In  this  case  a  curious  and  very  impressive  illusion 
is  produced  by  the  perspective  of  the  buttresses.  They 
seem  to  be  towers  of  rock,  and  this  is  especially  true 
of  the  central  one,  which  is  one  of  the  most  astonish- 
ing things  in  the  Highlands.  The  truth  is,  that  the 
apparent  summit  of  this  tower  is  in  reality  a  good  deal 
lower  than  a  spot  far  down  on  its  side  —  a  fact  I  sus- 
pected from  the  first,  and  subsequently  ascertained.  I 


234 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens* 


intend  to  paint  a  large  picture  of  this  subject ;  and  I 
know  beforehand  that  most  readers  of  this  book,  on 
looking  at  the  picture,  will  have  great  difficulty  in  be- 
lieving that  the  summit  of  the  central  tower-like  but- 
tress is  much  lower  than  the  lump  on  its  side,  and 
hundreds  of  feet  lower  than  the  peak  to  the  left  of  it 
and  the  ragged  edge  of  rock  to  the  right. 

The  color  of  the  mountains  in  this  part  of  Glen  Coe 
is,  in  fine  weather,  so  bright  and  delicate,  that  on  my 
own  side  of  the  glen  their  rocky  summits  told  against 
the  blue  sky  as  a  vigorous  light,  every  detail  distinctly 
visible  in  the  clear  air.  The  relief  of  the  illuminated 
rock,  with  its  burning  reds  and  purples,  and  dazzling 
variety  of  silvery  and  golden  grays  against  the  intense 
depth  of  the  blue  sky,  can,  it  is  true,  only  be  attained 
at  all  on  a  scale  of  light  far  lower  than  nature's,  but  to 
sacrifice  such  color  altogether  is  downright  sacrilege  ; 
and  strange  as  it  looks  to  the  uninformed  spectator 
wdien  painted  honestly  and  in  earnest,  this,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  glorious  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
frequent  aspects  of  mountainous  landscape,  ought  to 
be  frankly  painted  in  color  as  true  as  may  be,  even  at 
the  cost  of  some  unpopularity.  It  is  no  digression  to 
speak  here  of  this  aspect  of  mountain  scenery,  for  dur- 
ing two  whole  days  in  the  middle  of  Glen  Coe  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  I  consider  this  simple  fine- 
weather  aspect  doomed  beforehand  to  unpopularity, 
because  it  is  clear  enough  to  let  you  see  the  minutest 
details  of  mountain-form  ;  and  a  public  which  for  cen- 
turies has  been  content  to  admire  Claude's  way  of 
filling  up  a  feeble  and  unmeaning  outline  with  a  uni- 
form patch  of  bluish  gray  as  the  ideal  of  mountain- 
painting  is  not  likely  to  endure,  and  will  not  easily  be 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


235 


brought  to  tolerate,  works  full  of  most  elaborate  detail 
and  intense  and  various  color,  yet  almost  entirely  de- 
void of  any  appearance  of  aerial  perspective.  For  the 
harsh  fact  is,  that  the  dimness  of  objects  does  not 
express  their  measurable  distance,  but  only  the  humid- 
ity or  impurity  of  the  atmosphere  ;  and  therefore  the 
common  theory  of  aerial  perspective  is  of  no  use  as  a 
test  of  artistic  truth.  The  houses  on  the  opposite  side 
of  any  London  street  are,  in  a  November  fog,  a  good 
deal  less  visible  than  the  detail  of  a  precipice  seen  in 
clear  weather  across  an  Alpine  valley  several  leagues 
broad ;  and  the  summits  of  mountains  miles  away 
always  seem  so  near  to  inexperienced  climbers  in  clear 
weather,  that  they  invariably  expect  to  get  to  the  top 
of  them  in  a  ludicrously  impossible  space  of  time.  In 
spite  of  these  facts,  however,  people  will  have  what 
they  call  "aerial  perspective"  in  pictures;  and  the 
consequence  is,  that  painters,  if  they  have  to  live  by 
their  art,  must  confine  themselves  to  those  conditions  of 
the  atmosphere  where  there  is  haze  enough  to  produce 
it.*  When  the  world  knows  a  little  more  about  na- 
ture, and  will  tolerate  artistic  interpretations  of  other 
natural  phenomena  than  the  three  or  four  which  it 
understands  at  present,  we  may  hope  for  full  and  faith- 
ful renderings  of  mountain-form  in  cloudless  light  and 
truth  unveiled. 

Having  worked  all  day  long  at  my  study,  I  stretched 
my  legs  by  climbing  the  mountain  on  my  own  side  of 
the  glen,  with  a  view  to  ascertain  the  real  structure 

*  Not  too  much  haze,  however.  The  ordinary  public  is  as 
intolerant  of  true  mist-painting  in  Turner,  as  it  is  of  true  clear- 
weather-painting  in  John  Lewis.  The  happy  and  popular 
medium  is  the  quiet  afternoon  haziness  of  Claude  and  Cuyp. 


236  A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


of  the  opposite  buttresses.  As  I  suspected,  they  turned 
out  to  be  mere  spurs  or  projections  of  the  mountain's 
lower  structure,  not  independent  rock-towers.  I  also 
ascertained,  what  astonished  me  more,  something 
about  the  actual  position  of  the  peak  which  had 
seemed  to  overlook  Loch  Treachtan.  The  travelling 
of  great  peaks  is  an  astonishing  result  of  perspective. 
They  seem  to  march  along  the  horizon  like  moving 
spectres.  They  are  everywhere.  A  single  crest  is 
the  centre  of  interest  for  a  thousand  landscapes. 
Travel  as  fast  as  you  will,  they  travel  with  you,  like 
a  haunting  spirit ;  like  your  own  memory  — your  own 
conscience  —  your  own  sins.* 

It  was  a  grand  sight  to  see  the  great  lonely  glen 
under  the  rising  moon,  with  its  silvery  winding  stream, 
and  its  distant  lake,  and  all  the  stony  crests  that 
guard  it. 

After  another  very  hard  day's  work  at  the  same 
study,  I  went  to  King's  House  in  the  evening. 

I  had  broken  my  labors  in  the  middle  of  the  day  by 
a  walk  to  a  lonely,  deserted  village,  a  mile  or  two  from 
my  tent.  No  one  lives  there  now,  but  it  is  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  dwellings,  artistically  considered,  that 
I  have  yet  seen.  It  is  curious  to  think  how  many 
thousand  pounds  are  continually  spent  by  rich  people 
in  the  creation  of  houses  so  abominably  ugly  that  no 
true  artist  can  look  at  them  without  pain  ;  and  yet  the 
poor,  deserted  dwellings  of  a  lonely  Highland  shepherd 
contained  interest  enough  and  beauty  enough  to  oc- 
cupy and  delight  the  most  fastidious  and  cultivated 
artist  for  a  whole  month  at  least.    There  are  only  two 

*  Very  lofty  cathedral  towers  do  the  same  in  lowland  land- 
scape. 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


237 


kinds  of  architecture  which  a  true  artist  can  endure  — 
the  one  which,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Highland  cottage, 
is  full  of  natural  beauty,  which  the  builder,  from  sheer 
poverty,  has  been  forced  to  let  alone,  because  to  efface 
it  effectually  costs  money  ;  and  the  other,  as  in  a  Vene- 
tian palace  or  Gothic  cathedral,  which  is  full  of  artis- 
tic beauty,  produced  by  splendid  human  invention, 
based  on  the  study  of  nature,  and  expressing  itself  by 
the  aid  of  boundless  wealth.  The  intermediate  kinds 
of  building  produced  by  money  without  mind,  and  de- 
void alike  of  natural  and  artistic  beauty,  are,  to  all 
persons  endowed  with  any  true  artistic  feeling,  utterly 
repulsive  and  uninteresting. 

The  beauty  of  this  Highland  cottage  was  all  of  it 
natural  beauty,  associated  with,  and  no  doubt  height- 
ened by,  the  melancholy  human  interest  of  the  deserted 
roof  and  desolate  hearth.  The  spectator  could  not  but 
feel  that  this  solitary  house  in  the  desert  had  been 
some  one's  home,  stricken  with  poverty  it  is  true,  and 
lost  in  isolation,  yet  still  a  home,  perhaps  all  the 
dearer  for  its  very  loneliness.  But  beyond  this  inter- 
est, man's  work  had  little  to  do  with  the  attractiveness 
of  the  place.  The  arrangement  of  the  color  on  the 
stones  was  purely  natural  —  as  much  so  as  that  on  the 
surrounding  rocks.  The  smooth,  short,  soft  lawn  in 
front  had  been  shaven  by  no  gardener,  the  little  stream 
directed  by  no  designer  ;  yet  the  lawn  was  fit  for  the 
feet  of  a  princess,  and  the  little  pools  of  the  stream 
that  lay  cool,  and  deep,  and  clear  between  tiny  per- 
pendicular cliffs  of  granite,  were  pure  enough  for  the 
bath  of  a  water-nymph.  By  way  of  a  bridge,  the 
trunk  of  a  single  tree  was  thrown  across  the  narrow 
gorge  ;  and  under  it  slept  a  pool,  long,  narrow,  and 


238 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


very  deep.  The  gray  thatched  cottage,  the  soft  nat- 
ural lawn,  and  the  little  stream,  so  humble  in  them- 
selves, but  surrounded  with  so  much  magnificence,  so 
peaceful,  so  lonely,  and  so  desolate,  gave  me  far  purer 
pleasure  than  Versailles,  with  its  soulless  architecture, 
its  formal  fountains,  and  its  acres  of  preposterous 
paintings. 

Near  King's  House  I  examined  a  movable  hut  used 
by  the  men  who  mend  the  road.  It  contains  berths, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  for  about  a  dozen  men  ;  but  of 
course  they  are  narrowly  lodged.  A  hut  about  the 
same  size  would  be  a  useful  possession  for  a  painter, 
who,  if  a  bachelor,  might  live  in  it  permanently  with 
quite  as  much  comfort  as  people  ever  get  in  a  small 
yacht.  I  was  told  that  this  one  had  been  temporarily 
occupied  by  a  landscape-painter  who  wished  to  study 
in  Glen  Coe  during  the  winter  season.  I  could  pass 
a  winter  in  it  very  merrily  myself,  if  I  might  cut  a 
hole  for  one  of  my  plate-glass  windows,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  work  from  nature  without  going  out  of  doors. 

Having  determined  to  go  dowrn  Glen  Etive,  I  re- 
mained at  King's  House  only  long  enough  to  get  a 
good  study  of  the  head  of  Glen  Etive  as  it  is  seen  from 
there.  As  this  is  certainly  one  of  the  grandest  scenes 
in  the  Highlands,  I  shall  attempt  a  description  of  it  in 
this  place. 

A  foreground  of  wild  moorland,  with  a  picturesque 
cottage.  A  magnificent  peaked  mountain  on  the 
right,  like  a  dome  ;  on  the  left,  a  tall,  steep  mountain, 
like  a  Gothic  roof ;  between  the  two  another  moun- 
tain, low  on  the  horizon  and  blue  with  distance. 

Such  is  the  rude  sketch.  Now  let  us  fill  it  up  with 
a  little  color  and  detaiL 


A  Long  Drive  in  tJie  Glens. 


239 


In  the  first  place,  the  foreground  is  very  rich  in 
color.  As  so  frequently  happens  in  Highland  scenery, 
there  are  patches  of  short  grass  of  the  most  intense, 
incredible  emerald  ;  and  this  emerald  is  rendered  in- 
finitely more  brilliant  by  dark  purple  peat.  The 
greater  part  of  the  more  distant  moorland  is  olive- 
green  ;  here  and  there  the  bare  earth  shows  itself,  and 
that  is  reddish,  which  intensifies  the  olive.  Then  the 
whole  is  scattered  very  plentifully  with  gray  stones, 
very  often  bluish. 

Close  to  the  spectator  the  foreground  is  rich  in  dark 
purple  peat,  and  millions  of  golden  flowers,  and  rushes 
whose  green  blades  are  tipped  with  red.  In  the  midst 
stands  the  gray  cottage,  with  the  open  end  of  its  cart 
shed  turned  to  the  spectator ;  and  this  open  end  con- 
tains such  a  depth  of  gloom  as  delighteth  the  soul  of 
an  artist. 

The  mountain  on  the  right  is  in  local  color  most 
delicately  decorated.  It  is  covered  wTith  courses  of 
innumerable  streams,  many  of  them  of  quite  a  tender 
rose  color,  and  the  grass  between  them  has  such  a 
delicate  green,  and  there  are  such  grays,  and  suck 
purples,  and  all  mingled  in  sweetest  mystery,  enough 
to  break  one's  heart. 

Very  beautiful,  and  in  the  same  manner,  are  the 
granite  forms  and  hues  in  the  mountain  on  the  left. 
The  distant  one  in  the  middle,  as  I  saw  it,  was  merely 
a  blue  film  against  the  sky,  tender  as  air. 

As  soon  as  I  had  driven  a  hundred  yards  on  the 
road  down  to  Glen  Etive,  I  knew  what  to  expect :  I 
had  fourteen  miles  of  wild,  rough,  Highland  bridle 
track  before  me,  along  precipices  and  hills,  and 
through  innumerable  streams  —  not  a  pleasant  pros- 


240 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


pect  with  horses  that  required  incessant  attention. 
The  first  specimen  of  a  bridge  was  not  unfavorable. 
It  was  of  rough  planks  certainly,  and  hung  over  a 
rocky  torrent  at  a  dizzy  height ;  but  then  there  were 
some  pretensions  to  a  rail ;  and  the  bridge  was  broad 
enough  to  enable  me  to  drive  over  it  without  being 
accurate  to  an  inch.  After  this  the  road  kept  on  the 
side  of  a  precipitous  declivity  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
River  Etive  ;  but  there  was  breadth  enough  for  the 
wheels,  and  the  turns  were  not  unusually  dangerous, 
the  great  fault  of  the  road  being  that  it  inclined  to  the 
side  of  the  precipice  instead  of  to  the  side  of  the  hill. 
Still,  a  careful  driver  may  do  very  well  for  the  first 
eight  miles  in  Glen  Etive. 

I  encamped  in  the  middle  of  the  glen  for  two  nights, 
and  afterwards  continued  my  journey  to  the  head  of 
the  loch. 

Though  the  road  for  the  first  eight  miles  was  bad,  it 
became  infinitely  wTorse  afterwards.  I  should  think  a 
pair  of  horses  were  never  driven  over  a  more  unlikely 
track.  I  had  exactly  wheel  breadth,  with  scarcely  an 
inch  to  spare  ;  and  one  or  two  wooden  bridges  over 
rocky  streams  had  no  parapets  whatever.  I  admired 
Thursday's  courage  extremely,  as  he  sat  next  me  on 
the  box.  I  think  it  requires  far  less  pluck  to  drive  on 
a  dangerous  road  than  to  sit  tranquilly  beside  the 
coachman,  knowing  that  your  life  hangs  on  the  nerve 
and  skill  of  the  man  at  your  side.  No  doubt  the 
necessity  for  thought  and  care  lulls  the  nerves  ;  but  to 
be  in  considerable  danger,  and  do  absolutely  nothing, 
is  enough  to  try  the  strongest  of  us.  Thursday's  cool- 
ness, however,  was  more  apparent  than  real.  He 
told  me  afterwards  that  he  never  felt  so  uncomfortable 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens, 


241 


in  his  life,  and  that  he  always  held  himself  in  readi- 
ness for  a  leap. 

And  now  about  the  scenery  of  Glen  Etive. 

Immediately  after  visiting  Glen  Coe,  the  traveller 
may  not  think  it  very  astonishing ;  but  it  is  really 
exceedingly  fine,  and,  in  my  opinion,  one  of  the  very 
grandest  Highla?td  glens  I  have  ever  seen.  That 
noble  granite  stream,  the  Etive,  is  to  me  full  of  inter- 
est, for  it  abounds  in  admirable  pictures.  I  have 
never  seen  finer  water  sculpture  anywhere  than  on  the 
rose-colored  rocks  of  the  Etive,  nor  more  picturesque 
Scotch  firs  than  those  which  in  some  places  shade  it 
with  their  dark  foliage.  There  are  terribly  black 
pools,  too ;  one  especially,  where  the  deep  water 
winds  in  a  narrow  channel  that  a  stag  would  leap 
over,  between  two  precipitous  banks  of  massive 
granite. 

The  mountain  scenery  is  throughout  magnificent, 
and  grandly  terminated,  when  you  reach  Loch  Etive, 
by  a  fine  distant  view  of  Ben  Cruachan.  There  is  a 
noble  domed  tower  of  rock  seven  or  eight  miles  from 
King's  House,  which  is  a  tower,  and  not  a  buttress  ; 
and  a  few  miles  nearer  the  sea,  the  outlines,  as  you 
look  up  the  glen,  have  a  wonderful  vigor  and  energy, 
one  great  festooned  line  especially,  as  graceful  as  a 
loose  chain  suspended  unequally  from  its  two  ends.* 

*  If  the  reader  really  cares  about  fine  Highland  glens,  I 
counsel  him  by  all  means,  if  he  can  possibly  spare  the  time,  to 
stay  two  nights  at  the  King's  House  Inn,  where  Mrs.  Christie 
will  make  him  as  comfortable  as  any  tourist  ought  to  desire, 
and  whence  he  can  conveniently  make  an  excursion  to  Glen 
Etive  in  one  of  Mrs.  Christie's  conveyances  on  the  intervening 
day.    No  tourist  that  I  have  ever  met  seemed  to  think  of 

16 


242 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


We  got  to  the  head  of  Loch  Etive  without  .having 
capsized  the  wagon,  and  encamped  on  the  river's 
brink,  where  it  mingles  itself  with  the  faintly  saline 
waters  of  the  loch.  There  we  remained  during  sixty 
hours  of  incessant  rain.  By  sitting  in  the  door  of  the 
tent  I  contrived,  however,  to  obtain  a  careful  study, 
and  I  got  one  precious  sketch  of  Ben  Cruachan,  with 
all  the  blue  evening  shadows  on  him.  After  that  I 
saw  him  no  more.  The  head  of  Loch  Etive  is  a  very 
wild  and  lonely,  but  by  no  means  uninteresting  place. 
There  are  one  or  two  cottages  there,  strangely  isolated. 
A  rowing  boat  comes  up  occasionally  from  Bunawe 
with  supplies,  and  this  is  the  most  frequent  communi- 
cation with  the  outer  world.  In  such  a  place  as  that 
a  tent  is  indispensable  to  a  painter.  I  could  not  have 
got  my  study  at  all  if  I  had  been  obliged  to  return  to 
King's  House  to  sleep. 

As  the  rain  poured  quite  pitilessly  on  the  third  day 

exploring  Glen  Etive,  all  their  attention  being  concentrated  on 
Glen  Coe ;  but  I  think  it  a  great  pity  that  they  should  pass  so 
near  to  such  a  noble  glen  without  giving  a  day  to  it  at  least. 
Since  it  is  desirable  to  vary  the  Highland  routes  as  much  as 
possible,  I  beg  to  suggest  to  those  interested  in  such  matters, 
that  a  magnificent  and  entirely  new  route  might  be  opened 
from  Oban  to  King's  House  by  having  a  steamer  from  Oban 
to  the  head  of  Glen  Etive  in  communication  with  a  coach 
running  all  through  the  glen  from  the  shore  of  Loch  Etive  to 
the  King's  House  Inn,  where  it  would  meet  the  Glen  Coe 
coaches.  Loch  Etive  and  Glen  Etive  would  thus  be  both  of 
them  conveniently  opened  to  tourists ;  and  they  are  as  fine 
in  their  way  as  anything  in  the  whole  range  of  Highland 
scenery.  The  road  in  Glen  Etive  would,  of  course,  have  to 
be  improved,  but  it  might  be  made  fit  for  coach  travel  at  a 
moderate  cost. 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


243 


of  my  encampment  at  the  head  of  Loch  Etive,  and  as 
there  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  whatever  of  an  im- 
provement in  the  weather ;  considering,  moreover, 
that  the  hills  were  all  hidden  in  the  midst,  and  the 
provision  box  nearly  empty  ;  I  drove  back  to  King's 
House,  and  thence  the  next  day  to  Loch  Awe,  where 
I  and  Thursday  arrived,  weary  and  hungry,  and  wet 
to  the  skin. 

I  desire  to  add  here  a  few  observations  closely  con- 
nected with  the  subject  of  the  present  chapter,  on  the 
habit  of  travelling  as  conducive  to  progress  in  art. 

The  love  of  travel  which  characterizes  modern 
landscape-painters  is  a  peculiarity  worth  consideration. 
The  reader  will,  perhaps,  scarcely  believe  me  when  I 
tell  him  that  it  is  precisely  my  artistic  tendencies 
which  make  me  dislike  travelling  more  and  more. 
When  I  cared  less  for  my  art  I  had  a  strong  turn  for 
travel,  and  planned  explorations  of  all  the  most  inter- 
esting regions  of  the  globe.  None  of  these  plans  did 
I  ever  put  into  execution,  because,  as  I  knew  more  of 
art,  I  came  to  perceive  that  much  wandering  was  not 
good  for  it.  I  can  scarcely  understand  how  a  painter 
can  ever  be  a  tourist.  Nothing  torments  me  like  a 
tour.  To  pass  so  much  admirable  material  and  not 
have  time  to  make  good  studies  of  it,  is  to  me  the  tor- 
ture of  Tantalus.  My  first  impulse  when  I  come  to  a 
noble  subject  is  to  pitch  my  tent  straight  in  front  of  it, 
and  stay  there  twelve  months  ;  but  since  that  cannot 
always  be,  let  me  at  least  stay  long  enough  to  draw  it 
carefully,  and  watch  it  with  the  light  of  seven  or  eight 
sunsets  and  sunrises  upon  it ;  and,  if  possible,  also 
under  the  tender  mystery  of  moonlight.  To  look  at 
Loch  Awe  day  by  day  under  all  its  aspects  for  four 


244  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


years  exactly  suited  me,  and  I  could  have  staid 
twenty  years  longer  in  great  contentment,  with  no 
other  variety  than  the  changes  of  the  forms  as  my 
boat  moved,  and  the  changes  of  effects  as  the  weather 
and  the  seasons  altered.  I  was  once  dragged  past 
Loch  Awe  in  a  coach  at  ten  miles  an  hour,  in  perfect 
misery  ;  and  when  I  had  lately  to  go  down  the  valley 
of  the  Rhone  in  a  railway-train,  I  did  nothing  but 
wish  that  I  could  give  several  years  to  the  journey. 
But  life  is  not  long  enough  for  such  travelling  as 
would  quite  suit  me,  and  so  I  made  a  compromise 
with  necessity  ;  and  yet  I  know  that,  after  all,  at  this 
rate  Death  will  certainly  catch  me  before  I  have  seen 
the  tenth  part  of  what  I  want  to  see,  and  so  put  a  stop 
to  my  wanderings,  in  this  world  at  least,  forever. 
But,  let  the  tourist  be  in  ever  such  a  hurry,  he  will 
see  no  more,  probably  even  less,  wasting  his  time  in 
travel.  And  if  he  saw  a  new  scene  every  day  of  his 
life,  how  near  would  he  have  come  at  the  end  of  it  to 
exhausting  the  glories  of  one  planet?  I  think  my 
appetite  for  natural  beauty  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  as 
vigorous  as  his  — probably  even  keener,  since  it  needs 
far  less  the  stimulus  of  change.  And  I  think  that  I 
do  not  enjoy  a  less  quantity  of  beauty  in  the  long  run 
than  the  most  indefatigable  of  tourists. 

But  it  is  certain  that  the  common  practice  of  modern 
landscape-painters  is  against  me.  The  most  of  them 
combine  the  occupation  of  the  artist  with  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  tourist.  Turner  was  a  great  tourist, 
especially  on  foot,  and  much  in  the  habit  of  slight 
and  rapid  sketching,  as  is  most  convenient  for  travel- 
ling artists.  Now,  for  the  tourist  sketcher  who  travels 
rapidly,  a  tent  at  all  heavier  than  the  colorman's 


A  Long  Drive  in  the  Glens. 


245 


sketching  tent  is  a  useless  encumbrance.  A  mere 
sketcher  can  generally  contrive  to  get  to  an  inn  at 
night,  and  I  should  never  recommend  him  to  adopt 
the  tent  as  a  habitation.  What  is  best  and  pleasantest 
for  him  is  a  light  dog-cart,  with  a  sketching  tent  and 
a  portmanteau  inside  it.  And  let  him  live  at  the  inns. 
Or,  if  he  is  a  good  walker,  a  knapsack,  sketching- 
block,  and  stout  stick,  with  two  good  pairs  of  boots, 
and  a  little  money  in  his  pocket,  are  all  he  needs. 

In  my  opinion,  a  snail  is  the  perfect  type  of  what 
an  artist  upon  his  travels  ought  to  be.  The  snail 
goes  alone  and  slowly,  at  quite  a  rational  pace ;  stops 
wherever  he  feels  inclined,  and  carries  his  house  with 
him.  Only  I  fear  that  the  snail  does  not  give  that 
active  attention  to  the  aspects  of  nature  which  ought 
to  be  the  constant  habit  of  the  artist. 


BOOK  III.  — IN  FRANCE. 

BURGUNDY  AND  THE  MO  R  VAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 


FIRST  HEAD  QUARTERS.  A  LITTLE  FRENCH  CITY. 

f^^N  a  narrow,  flat  ledge,  near  the  top  of  a  very  steep 


V^/  French  coteau,  stands  my  painting  tent.  Before 
me,  spread  to  an  infinite  distance,  on  my  right  hand, 
Burgundy  ;  in  front  of  me,  Champagne.  The  River 
Yonne  comes  winding  down  the  broad  valley,  with 
long  reaches  and  sharp  curves  ;  miles  away  a  little 
isolated  gleam  shines  alone  like  a  tarn.  Below  my 
feet  runs  the  river,  at  the  foot  of  this  steep  bank  of 
chalk.  A  little  farther  down  it  passes  by  a  city,  whose 
magnificent  cathedral  rises,  a  towering  height  of  pale 
golden  gray,  infinite  with  dimly  perceived  ornament, 
out  of  green  dense  masses  of  the  richest  foliage.  All 
round  the  town,  but  especially  on  this  side  of  it,  are 
stately  groves  of  lofty  poplars,  standing  like  disciplined 
troops  in  line  and  hollow  square,  curving  also  here  and 
there  into  crescents,  and  casting  their  dark  shadows  on 
spaces  of  grass  that  springs  greener  for  their  friendly 
shade. 

Before  we  go  down  to  the  city,  let  us  look  around  us 


(247) 


248 


First  Head  Quarters. 


here  upon  the  hill.  We  are  amongst  the  vineyards. 
They  are  not  celebrated  vineyards  ;  for  although  we 
are  in  Burgundy,  the  produce  here  is  not  to  be  com- 
pared to  the  precious  gift  of  the  hills  of  gold.  Yet  the 
innumerable  proprietors  of  this  little  hill  watch  with 
keen  inteixst  the  gradual  filling  of  its  millions  of  green 
clusters,  and  you  or  I  may  admire  the  grapes  or  eat  of 
them  with  pleasure  when  they  shall  be  fully  ripe,  yet 
not  care  to  drink  of  the  wine  they  yield.  It  is  pleasant 
to  sit  here  in  the  sun,  outside  the  tent,  and  watch  the 
laborers  in  the  vineyards,  for  the  mind  of  man  always 
experiences  a  certain  satisfaction  in  being  itself  idle 
and  watching  others  work.  The  laborers  are  of  both 
sexes,  men  with  brown  arms  and  breasts,  and  broad 
straw  hats ;  and  women,  the  rich  glow  of  whose  sun- 
burnt faces  tells  even  at  a  distance,  when  they  rise 
occasionally  out  of  the  green  sea  of  vine  leaves  where- 
in they  stoop  and  are  hidden. 

Between  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  the  river  runs  the 
railway  from  Paris  to  Marseilles.  We  have  been  so 
long  accustomed  to  be  told  that  railways  are  prosaic 
things,  that  I  count  on  little  sympathy  when  I  confess 
that  those  four  thin  lines  of  iron  have,  for  me,  an  irre- 
sistible fascination,  and  excite  reflections  quite  as  ab- 
sorbing as  any  which  that  towered  town  suggests. 
On  those  twro  rails  nearest  the  river,  there,  just  there, 
borne  on  a  thousand  wheels,  rolled  the  mighty  hosts 
of  France  that  met  the  Austrians  at  Solferino.  There 
also  passed  their  calm  and  terrible  Captain  swiftly, 
like  Fate,  yet  with  nothing  of  military  ostentation,  in 
whose  ears  still  rang  the  acclamations,  on  that  occa- 
sion loud  and  genuine,  of  the  warlike  people  of  Paris. 
All  Italy  awaited  him  then,  thrilling  with  the  hope  of 


A  Little  French  City. 


liberty ;  Italy  believed  in  him,  Austria  feared  him,  all 
Europe  thought  of  him  only.  And  perhaps  the  other 
line  nearer  us  is,  to  an  Englishman,  awful  with  still 
more  affecting  associations.  On  many  a  dark  night  a 
very  few  years  ago  a  locomotive  rushed  furiously  along 
it,  dragging  two  post-carriages  at  a  wild  and  reckless 
speed,  fire  glowing  under  its  thundering  wheels.  It 
came  from  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  carrying  our  Indian 
mail,  carrying  sorrow  and  mourning  to  many  an  Eng- 
lish home  ;  cruel  letters  packed  carefully  together  in 
scaled  bags,  to  be  scattered  abroad  in  England,  every 
one  of  them  too  sure  to  hit  some  tender,  anxious  breast. 
Railways  are  as  rivers,  flowing,  not  with  water,  but 
human  life  and  intelligence,  and  all  of  them  acquire  a 
kind  of  sublimity  even  in  a  very  few  years.  But  most 
of  all  is  this  line  sublime.  It  is  the  one  great  highway 
of  Europe.  Sovereigns,  princes,  ambassadors,  travel 
by  it  continually,  and  scarcely  a  single  express  train 
passes  over  it  which  does  not  carry  some  powerful  or 
famous  personage. 

In  looking  at  a  French  landscape  like  this  lovely  one 
before  us,  an  Englishman  is  struck  by  the  sense  of 
space  gained  by  the  absence  of  walls  and  hedges. 
This  is,  artistically,  a  great  advantage.  The  eye 
ranges  with  a  sense  of  liberty  to  which  the  presence 
of  any  visible  obstacle  is  an  insuperable  impediment. 
A  broad  French  plain  has  the  sublimity  of  a  great 
lake  or  the  sea.  The  mean  ideas  of  property,  and 
farms,  and  petty  quarrels  about  boundaries,  never 
suggest  themselves  in  the  presence  of  such  a  broad 
expanse  as  this.  The  land  seems  infinite  and  im- 
measurable, as  if  it  belonged  to  God  alone.  The  only 
divisions  are  those  of  color ;  it  is  like  a  vast  floor  of 
many-colored  mosaic. 


250 


First  Head  Quarters. 


This  little  flat  ledge  where  the  tent  stands  is,  geolo- 
gically, unaccountable.  It  interrupts  a  strong  natural 
curve  for  no  conceivable  reason.  It  is  artificial.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  an  intended  terrace,  begun  some 
years  ago  by  a  gentleman  now  dead,  who  built  him- 
self a  pleasure-house  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  This 
pleasure-house  remains  a  monument  of  the  vanity  of 
human  wishes.  It  seems  that  its  owner  enjoyed  the 
view  so  much  that  he  must  needs  pass  much  of  his 
time  here,  and  to  that  end  erected  a  convenient  sum- 
mer-house, consisting  of  a  pleasant  well-finished  octag- 
onal room,  with  a  kitchen  and  other  offices  behind  it. 
Above  the  room  rises  a  belfry,  where  a  man  may  stand 
and  enjoy  the  view,  and  toll  the  bell  for  his  pleasure, 
and  to  the  bewilderment  of  the  dwellers  in  the  plain. 
To  the  left  of  the  house  is  a  delightful  bosquet  or  bower 
of  linden  trees,  forming  regular  and  almost  impervious 
walls  of  greenery,  which  enclose  a  space  as  large  as  a 
good  dining-room.  To  the  right  is  another  bower,  but 
smaller,  with  sweet  glimpses  of  the  scenery  through 
the  leaves  ;  and  behind  the  house  is  an  avenue  of  lin- 
den trees  and  a  vineyard,  also  a  remnant  of  an  old 
rubble-built  Gothic  chapel,  with  tiny  round  arched  win- 
dows, and  one  bearded  statue  canopied  by  a  luxuriant 
mass  of  ivy.  All  this  is  highly  delightful,  but  there 
are  things  yet  more  marvellous  to  be  seen  here  on  the 
hill.  Near  my  tent  there  is  a  hole  in  the  chalk  leading 
to  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth.  A  long  passage,  con- 
necting cells  far  apart,  winds  till  it  arrives  under  the 
house  ;  and  it  is  said  that  the  late  owner  intended  to  cut 
other  passages  and  cells,  but  wherefore,  no  man  knows.* 

*  Perhaps  as  a  refuge  from  the  heat,  which  is  often  intense 
here  when  there  is  no  breeze.  It  is  also  likely  that  one  of  the 
cells  may  have  been  simply  intended  for  a  wine  cellar. 


A  Little  French  City, 


One  thing  is  certain;  he  loved  the  place,  and  spent 
money  there  for  the  love  of  it.  Night  and  day  he 
came  up  here  from  the  little  city  in  the  plain,  and  sat 
in  his  pleasant  octagon  room,  and  mounted  his  belfry, 
and  descended  into  his  winding  subterranean  passages, 
and,  hermit-like,  visited  his  hollow  cells.  But  at  last 
he  fell  ill,  and  gave  his  beloved  little  place,  with  its 
bowers  of  linden  trees  and  its  fruitful  vineyard,  to  the 
holy  Archbishop  of  Sens,  that  the  archbishop  might 
say  masses  for  his  soul ;  and  he  died,  and  whether  the 
archbishop  said  any  masses  or  not  I  have  never  accu- 
rately ascertained.  But  it  is  evident  that  the  arch- 
bishop cares  not  for  the  little  summer-house,  for  the 
hill  is  steep  and  high,  and  the  good  prelate  loves  bet- 
ter his  quiet  garden  under  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral, 
where  the  ripening  apricots  redden  in  the  sun,  and  the 
fattening  pheasants  cackle  in  their  aviary. 

We  are  often  told  how  barbarous  English  people 
are,  so  that  nothing  can  be  left  accessible  to  them 
which  they  will  not  savagely  deface  ;  and  many  pleas- 
ant places  in  England  are  now  closed  to  the  public 
because,  some  disgraceful  wretches  have  formerly  done 
mischief  there.  But  even  here,  in  civilized  France,  I 
observe  the  same  unaccountable  tendencies.  The  little 
summer-house  had  several  windows  daintily  bordered 
with  narrow  lines  of  stained  glass,  probably  for  the 
amusement  of  those  curiously-constituted  minds  which 
experience  a  strange  satisfaction  in  looking  at  a  land- 
scape through  a  discoloring  medium.  The  walls  of 
the  octagonal  room  were  also  daintily  panelled,  and 
everything  was  finished  with  much  care  and  some  de- 
gree of  taste.  But  barbarians  came  hither  from  Sens, 
and  removed  bricks  that  they  might  get  at  the  bolts  of 


First  Head  J^hiarters. 


the  door,  and  unbolted  it,  and  entered  in,  and  smashed 
every  pane  of  glass  in  the  windows  —  stained  or  color- 
less, they  left  not  one  remaining ;  and  they  damaged 
the  delicate  panelling,  and  scrawled  inscriptions  on 
the  walls,  and  left  everywhere  the  marks  of  their  stupid 
destructiveness. 

So  much  for  the  last  hermitage  of  St.  Bond.  The 
first  was  erected  in  consequence  of  a  vow,  as  legends 
tell.  The  saint  who  dwelt  there  descended  every  day 
to  the  River  Yonne  with  his  water-jug,  but  every  day 
as  he  climbed  the  hill  the  devil  came  and  broke  the 
jug,  and  spilled  the  water.  This  he  did  for  seven 
years,  at  the  end  of  which  time  even  the  saint's  pa- 
tience began  to  be  a  little  wearied,  and  he  vowed  that 
if  the  devil  might  be  kept  from  plaguing  him  he  would 
build  a  hermitage  on  the  hill ;  and  thenceforth  Satan, 
who  must  have  broken  exactly  two  thousand  five  hun- 
dred and  fifty-five  water-jugs  —  which  Dr.  Colenso,  I 
suppose,  would  consider  an  improbable  number  —  de- 
sisted from  that  somewhat  monotonous  amusement. 

Sens  is  seated  on  the  right  bank  of  the  River  Yonne, 
opposite  a  large  island  with  many  houses  upon  it. 
There  are  two  bridges  going  to  the  railway  station, 
and  a  picturesque  straggling  street.  The  city  itself  is 
entirely  belted  by  magnificent  avenues,  chiefly  elms, 
which  here  in  France  grow  to  a  wonderful  height, 
with  astonishing  freedom  and  grace.  I  remember  a 
still  finer  avenue  of  old  chestnut  trees,  now  removed, 
which  never  recovered  the  ill  usage  they  got  from  the 
Cossacks,  who  encamped  here  during  the  invasion, 
and  wore  the  bark  away  from  the  trees  by  the  friction 
of  horse-tethers.  An  incautious  mayor  finished  the 
ailing  trees  by  raising  the  level  of  the  road,  and  so 


A  Little  Fre7ich  City. 


253 


burying  some  portion  of  their  trunks.  These  avenues 
follow  the  course  of  the  old  walls,  now  nearly  all  re- 
moved, but  there  are  picturesque  bits  left  here  and 
there.  Instead  of  the  grand  old  Gothic  gateways, 
they  have  put  an  absurd  triumphal  arch  in  one  place, 
and  still  more  stupid  columns  in  another.  Still  there 
is  a  fine  postern  left,  hidden  behind  the  trees.  The 
avenues  are  double  —  I  mean  there  are  four  lines  of 
trees,  and  in  the  middle  large  green  lawns,  one  of 
which  is  watered  by  a  rivulet.  In  their  love  of  public 
walks  the  French  give  us  a  good  example.  Sens, 
wTith  a  population  of  ten  thousand,  has  far  better  and 
more  extensive  public  walks  than  either  Manchester 
or  Glasgow.  I  know  that  in  England  some  watering- 
places  have  walks  to  attract  visitors,  but  Sens  is  not  a 
watering-place  ;  strangers  seldom  stay  there  more  than 
an  hour  or  two,  and  the  walks  are  simply  for  the 
health  and  recreation  of  the  inhabitants  themselves. 

Avenues  which  encircle  %  town,  with  large  green 
spaces  in  them  for  exercise,  are  much  better  than 
some  isolated  spot  inaccessible  to  half  the  population. 
And  if  the  town  grows  beyond  the  avenues,  what 
matter?  Are  they  not  accessible  to  the  outsiders  also? 
Fancy  what  a  boon  it  would  be  to  the  inhabitants  of 
a  large  English  manufacturing  town  to  have  such 
avenues  and  lawns  as  those  of  Sens  circling  it,  and 
held  forever  inviolable  as  municipal  property  sacred 
to  the  public  health  !  The  lawn  in  the  middle,  like 
the  tapis  vert  at  Sens,  ought  to  be  wide  enough  all 
along  for  cricket,  and  everybody  should  be  allowed  to 
play  there  under  certain  slight  restrictions  necessary 
for  the  preservation  of  order.  Spaces  might  also  be 
set  apart  for  gymnastic  exercises,  and  furnished  with 


254 


First  Head  Quarters. 


such  simple  apparatus  as  common  gymnastics  require. 
It  may  be  said  that  the  English  people  do  not  care 
about  trees,  and  lawns,  and  exercise,  and  "  that  sort 
of  thing  "  —  that  they  prefer  beer  and  gin.  I  wish 
you  would  try  them.  I  feel  convinced  that,  if  such 
public  walks  belted  our  northern  towns,  the  inhabit- 
ants would  all  take  to  them  as  ducks  take  to  water. 

The  avenues  look  best  when  some  procession  is 
passing  along  them.  The  Senonese  are  rather  fond 
of  getting  up  what  they  call  a  "  cavalcade, "  ostensibly 
for  some  charitable  purpose,  but  in  reality  because  it 
amuses  them.  The  last  cavalcade  of  this  kind  I  hap- 
pened to  witness  —  a  charming  sight  for  a  child,  and 
highly  suggestive  to  a  painter,  but  not  perfect  enough 
to  produce  the  degree  of  illusion  necessary  to  keep 
one  quite  serious.  However,  there  is  compensation 
in  everything,  and  if  the  spectacle  had  been  quite  un- 
exceptionable, it  would  not  have  been  half  such  good 
fun.  The  subject  represented  was  a  return  from  hunt- 
ing during  the  Regency,  the  charitable  object  was  the 
relief  of  the  cotton  operatives  about  Rouen,  and  the 
date  of  the  festival  was  the  first  Sunday  after  Easter  in 
the  present  year  (1863). 

I  saw  the  procession  first  from  the  upper  windows 
of  a  house  near  the  palace  of  justice,  the  next  but  one 
from  a  sharp  corner.  In  the  same  street,  but  a  good 
way  round  the  corner,  stands  the  sous-prefecture, 
whence  the  procession  started ;  so  we  heard  the 
strains  of  martial  music  and  the  trampling  of  many 
steeds  some  time  before  we  saw  anything. 

Suddenly  a  number  of  boys  and  young  men  rushed 
round  the  corner,  and  came  under  the  windows  where 
we  stood.    They  were  dressed  in  loose  scarlet  tunics, 


A  Little  French  City, 


255 


not  unlike  the  tabards  of  heralds,  embroidered  with 
green,  yellow,  and  white  flowers.  They  had  white 
sleeves,  and  blue  knickerbockers,  and  red  stockings. 
Their  caps  were  of.  divers  colors,  bordered  with  fur. 
They  all  carried  long  blue  poles  with  trumpet  mouths 
at  the  tops,  but  these  were  not  musical  instruments. 
The  use  of  them  we  very  soon  learned.  If  we  had 
flattered  ourselves  that  by  being  stationed  at  a  good 
height  above  the  street  we  had  cunningly  escaped 
contributing  anything  to  the  relief  of  the  people  at 
Rouen,  we  had  deceived  ourselves.  The  long  blue 
trumpets  were  presented  to  us ;  they  touched  our 
very  hands.  On  putting  a  piece  of  money  into  the 
trumpet's  mouth  it  entered  with  surprising  facility, 
.  and  slid  down  a  tube  of  blue  cotton,  by  means  of 
which  it  safely  arrived  in  a  box  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  pole.  In  spite  of  their  disguise  I  recognized  one 
or  two  of  the  lads  who  carried  the  poles ;  and  I, 
not  being  disguised,  was  of  course  only  too  easily 
recognized  by  them.  But  I  was  a  fool  for  putting  too 
much  money  into  the  first  trumpet,  for  others  came 
after,  and  then  I  was  reduced  to  coppers,  which  looked 
shabby  ;  whereas  if  I  had  wisely  limited  myself  to  a 
franc  at  once  from  the  beginning,  I  might  have  met 
all  demands  respectably. 

The  blue  trumpets,  to  our  great  relief,  passed  by  at 
last,  and  were  presented  to  other  windows.  Then 
four  gendarmes  came  round  the  corner  on  well- 
groomed  horses,  with  their  usual  rather  solid  and 
heavy  aspect,  terrible  to  all  disturbers  of  the  peace. 
Then  came  the  band  of  the  65th  regiment  of  the 
line,  playing  martial  music.  And  now  for  the  grand 
cavalcade ! 


256 


First  Head  Quarters. 


For  my  part  I  made  up  my  mind  to  believe  it  all  if  I 
could  ;  but  it  seemed  more  as  if  I  were  in  a  picture 
gallery  or  a  theatre  than  really  witnessing  a  return 
from  hunting.  Still  it  was  well  got  up.  The  dresses, 
made  in  Paris  on  purpose  for  such  occasions,  were 
costly  and  good,  and  carefully  studied  from  actual 
costumes  of  the  period  ;  and  if  the  wearers  of  them 
w7ere  not  exactly  princes,  they  looked  even  yet  more 
princely  than  real  princes  do. 

Three  huntsmen  on  horseback.  Their  coats  were 
striped  with  narrow  bands  of  blue  and  silver  and  gold. 
They  wore  cocked  hats  and  red  breeches,  and  blue 
saddle-cloths. 

A  company  of  foot  guards,  wearing  black  hats  edged 
writh  red,  blue  coats  with  white  stripes,  and  scarlet 
breeches.    They  bore  halberds. 

Four  trumpeters,  with  loose  surcoats  of  blue,  pow- 
dered with  golden  fleurs-de-lis,  black  cocked  hats 
edged  with  gold,  white  breeches  faced  with  yellow, 
and  high  boots.  They  sounded  their  trumpets  con- 
tinually, two  at  a  time.  These  trumpets  were  of  the 
old  French  hunting  pattern,  winding  round  the  body 
of  the  trumpeter,  passing  over  his  left  shoulder  and 
under  his  right  arm. 

Rabatteurs,  wearing  long  curls,  gray  felt  hats,  and 
white  plumes.  Their  coats  red,  with  black  velvet 
cuirasses,  each  with  a  huge  silver  star  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  breast.  Breeches  white,  faced  with  red. 
Boots  high,  with  mighty  gilded  spurs. 

As  these  stately  personages  were  riding  proudly 
past  with  drawn  swords,  just  under  our  windows,  the 
horse  in  the  middle,  a  heavy  gray  beast,  took  it 
into  its  head  to  make  a  violent  attack  on  its  right- 
hand  neighbor. 


A  Little  French  City.  257 


The  first  two  kicks  missed,  but  the  third  was  only 
too  well  planted,  for  it  sent  horse  and  man  rolling 
over  in  the  gutter.  This,  however,  was  partly  due 
to  the  anxiety  of  the  attacked  horse  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  the  aggressor.  The  riders  both  kept  their 
seats,  and  did  not  look  alarmed.  I  particularly  ad- 
mired the  one  whose  horse  came  down.  He  had 
received  a  kick  on  his  left  foot,  hard  enough  to  break 
his  great  gilded  spur,  part  of  which  was  picked  up 
afterwards ;  yet  he  held  his  drawn  sword  steadily  in 
the  air,  and  resumed  his  place  in  the  procession,  just 
as  I  have  seen  an  English  life-guardsman  do  under  like 
circumstances.  A  little  delay  was  occasioned  by  this 
accident ;  and  when  the  procession  moved  forward, 
the  gentlemen  composing  it  kept  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance from  the  heavy  gray  horse  in  the  middle. 

The  Grand  Huntsman,  all  in  crimson  velvet  and 
gold,  with  a  baton  like  a  field-marshal's,  and  an  air 
of  infinite  importance. 

Piqueurs  de  la  Meute.  I  cannot  remember  how 
these  were  dressed,  but  have  a  dim  impression  of 
some  absurd  costume  like  that  worn  by  the  army  in 
Faust,  as  played  at  the  Theatre  Lyrique. 

La  Mente.  At  any  rate  I  remember  the  doggies, 
which  were  au  natureL  Little  is  to  be  said  in  their 
favor.  There  had  been  a  rumor  that  the  emperor 
would  lend  us  a  pack  of  hounds  from  Fontainebleau  ; 
but  surely  these  sorry  little  dogs  were  not  a  deputa- 
tion from  the  imperial  kennels.  They  were  decidedly 
the  worst  part  of  the  procession  ;  but  they  trotted 
along  contentedly,  glad  to  be  out  for  an  airing,  and 
happily  ignorant  of  the  expressions  of  contempt  that 
hailed  them  on  every  side. 

17 


258  First  Head  Quarters. 


Mousquetaires  a  fied.  Exactly  like  a  regiment  in 
an  opera. 

Trumpeters  on  foot.  Not  much  better  than  the 
poor  doggies.  Wretched  little  fellows,  totally  desti- 
tute of  calves,  and  yet  endowed  with  blue  breeches 
and  red  stockings.  The  tallest  was  put  in  the  middle. 
They  wore  black  cocked  hats  with  white  edges,  pow- 
dered wigs  with  tails,  and  scarlet  coats  with  silver 
facings.  They  had  a  mournful  look,  as  though  in- 
wardly conscious  of  being  absurd. 

The  Wolf.  An  unlucky  beast  probably  killed  in 
some  neighboring  wTood,*  and  now  borne  triumphant- 
ly, having  his  legs  tied  together,  and  a  long  pole  thrust 
between  them,  which  pole  rested  on  the  shoulders  of 
two  lads  with  blue  coats  and  red  breeches.  The  vic- 
tim was  painful  to  behold.  His  open  mouth  showed 
savage  teeth,  and  his  tail  hung  inversely,  beating  time 
with  a  regular  cadence  to  the  steps  of  the  bearers. 

To  the  wolf  succeeded  a  stag  between  two  foxes, 
the  three  borne  upon  a  litter.  It  was  impossible  to 
believe  that  the  little  dogs  we  had  just  seen  could  have 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  death  of  that  stag. 

Two  youthful  pages  followed.  They  had  a  femi- 
nine look,  and  were  probably  girls.  They  wore  long 
red  coats,  black  velvet  breeches,  and  white  stockings. 
They  had  long  brown  curls  under  black  cocked  hats. 

The  Regent.  His  Highness  wore  a  black  hat,  a 
coat  of  sky-blue  moire,  embroidered  with  silver  and 
gold,  and  sky-blue  breeches.  This  august  personage 
had  a  most  splendid  appearance  ;  and  I  am  credibly 

*  My  next-door  neighbor  killed  a  very  fine  wolf  in  the 
woods  near  Sens,  and  keeps  his  skin  as  a  trophy. 


A  Little  French  City. 


259 


informed  by  Monsieur  le  Maire  that  that  sky-blue  coat 
and  those  sky-blue  breeches  had  cost  no  less  a  sum 
than  twenty  pounds  sterling. 

To  the  Regent  succeeded  two  princes ;  and  here  I 
proudly  record  a  personal  incident.  One  of  their  High- 
nesses deigned  to  speak  to  me.  It  is  true  that  under 
the  royal  wig  I  recognized  the  familiar  features  of  a 
baker  of  respectable  standing  in  the  town  ;  but  he 
looked  a  prince,  every  inch  of  him. 

Indeed,  all  these  personages  bore  themselves  with  a 
regal  air.  It  may  have  occurred  to  the  reader  to  feel 
some  slight  disappointment  on  seeing  the  faces  of  real 
kings,  for  they  do  not  always  come  up  to  one's  lofty 
ideal ;  but  these  men  did.  That  baker  was  just  as  good 
a  gentleman  and  prince  (to  look  at)  as  any  that  ever  I 
saw ;  and  if  he  had  been  a  real  prince,  he  would  have 
won  all  hearts  by  the  grace  of  his  condescension. 
Men  would  have  said  of  him,  "  See  how  easy  it  is  to 
recognize  princely  blood ! "  there  being  a  strong  ten- 
dency in  mankind  to  call  qualities  princely  when  they 
belong  to  princes ;  though,  when  precisely  the  same 
graces  adorn  common  folks,  they  excite  nobody's  ad- 
miration. 

And  my  bell-hanger,  who  passed  as  a  great  lord, 
and  deigned  to  give  me  a  lordly  smile  and  bow,  what 
peer  of  France  ever  bowed  better?  The  next  time  my 
bells  won't  ring,  he  will  come  with  his  tools  in  his 
hand,  in  his  plain  workman's  dress,  and  humbly  toil 
for  me.  But  can  I  forget  that  he  rode  behind  the 
Regent  with  that  noble  air  of  pride  ? 

There  wTere  many  lords  of  the  court,  some  on  horse- 
back in  velvet  coats  of  various  colors,  others  in  a  huge 
gilded  chariot,  drawn  by  four  fat  horses. 


260 


First  Head  Quarters. 


At  last  the  procession  passed  us.  It  traversed  all  the 
quaint  old  streets.  It  circumnavigated  the  great  square 
in  front  of  the  cathedral.  It  emerged  from  the  little 
city,  and  wandered  into  the  faubourgs  beyond.  It 
passed  gleaming  and  glittering  under  the  green  old 
elms  in  the  avenues.  It  crossed  the  bridge  and  pene- 
trated into  the  faubourg  on  the  island  in  the  river. 
After  having  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  islanders,  it  re- 
turned to  the  avenues  without  the  walls,  and  there 
many  good-natured  householders,  sitting  on  the  ter- 
races of  their  gardens,  handed  glasses  of  ale  or  wine 
to  the  thirsty  riders. 

The  proceeds  of  the  collection,  chiefly,  I  suspect,  in 
sous,  quite  filled  a  large  box,  which  followed  the  pro- 
cession in  a  carriage.  I  am  afraid,  after  the  expenses, 
not  much  was  left  for  the  poor  folks  at  Rouen ;  and 
one  cannot  help  regretting  that  the  charitable  people 
who  poured  money  into  the  blue  trumpets  which  were 
applied  to  the  windows,  and  into  the  tin  boxes  carried 
by  those  who  begged  amongst  the  crowd,  did  not 
rather  give  the  same  amount  directly  to  some  of  the 
many  committees,  which  hand  it  over,  without  deduc- 
tion, to  those  who  really  have  need  of  it. 

I  saw  no  more  of  the  procession.  In  the  evening 
there  was  a  grand  military  concert  on  the  public  lawn. 
A  large  circle  was  brilliantly  illuminated  with  festoons 
of  lamps  hanging  from  tall  masts  crowned  with  ban- 
ners. The  music  was  good,  and  about  two  thousand 
people  heard  it. 

In  other  parts  of  the  promenades  there  were  the 
usual  amusements  of  a  fete  day,  and  some  little  boys 
of  my  acquaintance  were  rendered  extremely  happy 
by  a  ride  on  the  wooden  horses ;  and  hard  by  other 


A  Little  French  City. 


equestrians  in  a  circus  rode  on  horses  of  real  flesh  and 
blood,  which  galloped  round  and  round.  Spangled 
ladies  in  short  petticoats  stood  on  the  platform  before 
the  circus,  crying  mightily, "  Come  and  see  ; "  some  were 
fat  and  some  were  lean,  but  only  one  was  pretty.  Then 
there  were  boxers  boxing,  powerful  athletes  with  thick 
muscular  arms  and  dreadfully  brutal  looks.  And  whilst 
the  sunshine  lasted,  there  was  a  balloon  man,  with  a 
cluster  of  red  India-rubber  balloons  hanging  like  a 
bunch  of  shining  cherries  high  in  the  blue  air ;  and  he 
let  one  of  them  go  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  crowd, 
and  it  rose  and  rose  till  it  passed  far  above  the  cathe- 
dral towers,  and  gradually  became  a  tiny  speck  up  in 
the  blinding  light  about  the  sun,  when  the  strongest 
eyes  lost  it. 

These  Senonese  cavalcades  may  be  seen  from  two 
points  of  view.  Are  they  an  indication  of  childishness 
or  of  culture?  I  incline  to  the  latter  view.  I  like  the 
attempt  to  keep  the  past  in  our  memories  by  these  re- 
minders. Here  was  a  little  lesson  in  history  brought 
home  to  ten  thousand  people.  Who  was  the  Regent? 
Those  who  did  not  know,  asked  ;  those  who  did,  re- 
plied. There  was  much  conversation  on  historical 
topics  in  Sens  that  day,  much  criticism  of  the  cos- 
tumes, some  discussion  as  to  the  acts  and  character  of 
the  Regent.  The  present  writer,  whose  knowledge 
of  history  is  unfortunately  somewhat  general,  and  even 
vague,  learned  several  facts  which  he  did  not  know  be- 
fore. But  the  strongest  impression  was  made  upon 
the  boys  ;  and  a  juvenile  from  the  Lycee,  who  some- 
times dines  with  me  on  a  Sunday,  talked  of  nothing 
but  history  over  his  nuts  and  almonds,  and  asked  me 
many  questions  which,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  was 
utterly  unable  to  answer. 


262  First  Head  Quarters. 


As  a  machinery  for  collecting  money  for  charitable 
purposes,  a  cavalcade  is  a  cunning  device.  It  passes 
through  every  street  and  before  every  house.  It  ex- 
cites so  much  curiosity  that  the  people  are  all  sure  to 
be  at  their  windows ;  then  there  are  so  many  collect- 
ors, that  those  wTho  refuse  to  the  first,  give  to  the 
third,  or  sixth,  or  tenth. 

The  Senonese  have  a  terrible  custom  of  marching 
about  with  drums.  There  is  a  tradition  that,  many 
ages  ago,  the  Saracens  penetrated  hitherto,  and  so  dis- 
mayed the  inhabitants  that  they  were  on  the  point  of 
abandoning  the  city,  when  a  virgin  of  Sens,  whose 
name  history  has  failed  to  preserve,  took  a  drum  and 
marched  about  the  streets  drumming.  Then  all  the 
other  young  women  in  the  town  took  drums,  and 
drummed  ;  and  the  Saracens,  hearing  this  tremendous 
and  universal  drumming,  concluded  that  there  must  be 
a  mighty  force  within  the  walls,  and  abandoned  the 
siege.  And  so,  because  the  Saracens  threatened  Sens, 
nobody  knows  how  many  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and 
because  a  virgin,  whose  name  nobody  knows,  excited 
all  the  others  to  drum  with  drums,  all  modern  citizens 
of  Sens  who  may  happen  to  have  a  constitutional  an- 
tipathy to  noise  are  to  have  their  nervous  system  hor- 
ribly tortured  and  put  out  of  order  by  a  mob  of  drum- 
mers parading  the  streets  by  torchlight.  It  is  incredible 
what  an  uproar  they  make.  It  shakes  the  houses  from 
top  to  bottom  ;  the  very  stones  in  the  paved  streets 
dance  under  the  drums.  There  they  go  with  their 
infernal  rattle,  torches  flaring,  and  a  mob  of  children 
after  them,  who  love  noise  as  much  as  I  hate  it. 

To  finish  the  festivities  of  the  cavalcade,  of  course  I 
knew  that  the  drummers  would  gather  themselves  to- 


A  Little  French  City, 


263 


gether.  And  if  any  sick  were  lying  in  their  beds  that 
night  in  anything  like  that  state  for  which  straw  is  laid 
down  before  people's  houses,  depend  upon  it,  those 
drums  were  the  death  of  them. 

Of  the  usual  festivities  of  the  place  it  is  not  my  lot 
to  see  very  much.  I  am  not  addicted  to  dancing  in 
the  open  air,  as  Mr.  Pinchbold  did  when  cruising  on 
wheels  in  this  part  of  the  world.  Sometimes,  as  I 
walk  round  the  promenades  on  a  Sunday  evening,  I 
perceive  gleaming  through  the  thick  foliage  in  front 
of  me  festoons  of  colored  lamps,  on  approaching  which 
I  hear  strains  of  music,  and  discover  the  postman  who 
brings  me  letters  sitting  on  high,  divested  of  his  official 
uniform,  and  playing  energetically  on  the  clarinet. 
Around  him  are  violinists,  and  performers  on  all  kinds 
of  instruments  ;  before  him,  on  a  large  wooden  floor, 
laid  down  for  the  occasion  and  defended  by  railing, 
whirl  a  hundred  couples  in  the  mazes  of  a  waltz. 
Hard  by  the  ball  are  stalls  for  refreshment,  and  in 
the  distance  the  inevitable  rotatory  machine  with  the 
wooden  horses,  whereon  tall  young  fellows  gravely 
sit,  their  feet  touching  the  ground,  their  coat-tails 
hiding  the  tail  of  the  horse,  as  they  calmly  await 
the  motion  which  is  to  them  so  full  of  charm. 

One  of  the  first  questions  usually  asked  of  an  Eng- 
lishman who  lives  in  France  is,  whether  he  likes 
French  cookery.  A  prudent  man,  when  the  question 
is  put  to  him  at  an  English  dinner-table,  tells  a  lie, 
and  says  that  English  cookery  is  far  superior.  Taken 
broadly,  the  difference  between  the  two  nations  in  this 
matter  is,  that  the  French  can  cook,  and  the  English 
can't;  but  dishes  which  are  so  extremely  simple  as  not 
to  require  any  scientific  cooking  at  all  are  generally 
better  in  England. 


264  First  Head  Quarters. 


To  borrow  an  illustration  from  my  own  craft.  I 
very  often  admire,  with  humble  wonder,  the  astonish- 
ing perfection  with  which  carriages  are  painted.  We 
painters  of  pictures  could  not  paint  carriages  so  well 
as  men  bred  peculiarly  to  that  trade.  Very  few  of  us 
could  lay  the  color  quite  evenly  enough,  or,  if  we  did, 
it  would  only  be  by  great  effort ;  whereas  a  simple 
carriage-painter,  who  has  never  troubled  himself  about 
gradation  and  what  we  call  texture,  lays  on  his  paint 
with  a  masterly  perfection  of  method.  So  a  French 
cook  is  too  artistic  to  succeed  where  art  is  superflu- 
ous ;  and  there  we  beat  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  like  frogs? "  asks  the 
indignant  reader.  Yes,  I  do.  And  here  allow  me  to 
remark,  that  if  you  are  ignorant  of  the  taste  of  frogs, 
you  are,  gastronomically  speaking,  sunk  in  the  depths 
of  barbarism,  and  an  object  of  pity,  even  as  some 
wretch  who  has  never  swallowed  an  oyster.  Fancy 
chickens  from  Lilliput,  as  much  more  delicate  than 
common  chickens  as  they  would  be  smaller,  and  you 
have  some  notion  of  what  frogs  are  like.  One  of  the 
most  galling  disappointments  I  ever  had  to  bear  was 
to  leave  untouched  a  plate  of  frogs,  because  I  had  to 
go  off  by  the  train.  For  the  first  forty  miles  my  soul 
was  a  prey  to  vain  regrets ;  and  even  now,  though  I 
have  eaten  many  a  plate  of  frogs  since  then,  I  have  not 
quite  got  over  it. 

But  the  common  English  notion,  that  the  French 
are  fed  on  frogs  habitually,  is  a  mistake.  Frogs  are 
much  too  dear  to  be  anything  but  a  luxury ;  and  you 
might  as  well  say  that  the  English  population  is 
brought  up  on  woodcocks. 

The  Burgundians  are  fond  of  their  great  big  vine- 


A  Little  French  City. 


265 


snails ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  the  principal  merit  of 
snails  is,  that  they  are  good,  strong,  nourishing  food. 
The  way  that  snails  are  generally  served  in  good 
houses  is  this  :  Seven  or  eight  of  them  are  brought 
on  a  little  hot  silver  plate,  with  a  tiny  silver  two- 
pronged  fork,  made  on  purpose.  The  seven  snails 
are  by  no  means  unpleasant  to  look  at,  their  shells 
being  beautifully  white  and  clean.  The  entrance  to 
every  shell  is  stopped  with  a  sort  of  paste,  pleasant 
to  the  taste.  You  insert  the  fork  and  pull  out  the 
inhabitant.  He  is  a  huge  animal,  and  of  a  dark 
brown  color  graduating  to  black.  The  black  is  the 
best.  The  beast  is  not  pleasant  to  look  at ;  so  you 
should  transfer  him  rapidly  from  his  shell  to  your 
mouth,  and,  when  there,  you  find  him  very  like  an 
enormous  morsel  of  tough  beafsteak.  Masticate  him 
if  you  can  !  If  you  are  successful,  and  go  boldly  on 
till  you  have  emptied  the  seventh  shell,  you  must  be  a 
hungry  man  indeed,  if  you  have  not  sufficiently  dined  ; 
—  and  this,  not  because  you  are  made  sick,  but  really 
because  these  big  snails  are  strong  meat. 

Next  to  good  eating,  the  French  love  good  wine, 
and,  better  than  either,  witty  and  intellectual  conver- 
sation. The  wines,  as  I  said,  grown  at  this  particular 
place  are  not  to  be  recommended  ;  but  all  the  best 
produce  of  Upper  Burgundy  is  to  be  got  here.  The 
variety  of  wines  grown  in  Burgundy  is  much  greater 
than  Englishmen  generally  are  aware  of.  White 
burgundy  with  soda-water  rivals  Byron's  hock  and 
soda-water.  The  sparkling  burgundies  of  the  better 
sort  are  as  good  as  the  best  champagne  ;  and  the  pre- 
cious red  wines  which  Englishmen  used  to  appreciate 
so  highly  in  Esmond's  time  are  sold  here,  and  even  at 
Dijon,  at  the  rate  of  ten  francs  a  bottle. 


266 


First  Head  Quarters. 


In  saying  that  the  French  are  fond  of  good  conver- 
sation, an  exception  must  be  made.  French  girls, 
whom  Mr.  Ruskin,  perhaps  not  unjustly,  defined  as 
the  sweetest-tempered  living  creatures  in  the  world, 
might  also  be  characterized  as  the  most  silent.  A 
French  maiden  properly  brought  up  is  a  miracle  of 
modesty ;  her  dress,  her  manners,  are  the  extreme 
of  an  ideal  simplicity.  Admirers  crowd  respectfully 
about  her ;  and  she  never  seems  to  suppose  it  possible 
that  she  can  excite  any  admiration :  if  utterly  neg- 
lected, she  seems  just  as  happy  in  her  own  quiet  way ; 
nobody  can  tell  what  she  is  thinking.  Always  calm, 
contented,  placid,  and  yet  lifted  so  far  above  us  by 
never  condescending  to  seek  our  homage,  she  wins  it 
as  her  natural  right.  Men  talk  to  each  other  in  her 
tranquil  presence  with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  she  is 
criticising  them  inwardly.    She  is  that 

Mystery  of  mysteries, 
Faintly  smiling  Adeline. 

She  is  clear,  and  yet  inscrutable,  like  the  blue  depths 
of  a  Swiss  lake  in  a  calm.  This  is  the  secret  of  her 
inexhaustible  interest.  Who  knows  whether  she  is 
shallow  or  deep?  Sometimes  one  fancies  there  are 
faint  gleams  of  subdued  sarcasm  in  her  gentle  eyes. 
She  seems  a  serene  Intelligence  dwelling  apart  from 
the  world. 

Is  she  in  thought  as  absolutely  innocent  as  she 
looks?  Of  course,  charitable  Englishwomen,  calling 
themselves  Christians,  say  she  is  a  sham,  and  that  they 
would  not  let  their  daughters  be  educated  in  her  com- 
pany. It  is  easy  to  gain  credit  for  penetration  by 
slandering  simple  girls  who  are  foreigners  ;  but  every 


A  Little  French  City, 


267 


one  who  knows  respectable  French  society,  knows 
very  well  that  there  is  no  foundation  whatever  for  slan- 
der of  that  kind.  The  young  French  girl  in  the  higher 
classes  is,  unfortunately  for  her,  only  too  innocent  for 
this  wrorld,  of  which  she  is  almost  as  ignorant  as  a 
new-born  baby.  Some  day  her  papa  will  say  to  her, 
"  My  daughter,  thou  art  going  to  be  married,"  and 
she,  in  simple  filial  obedience,  will  yield  herself  up  to 
the  chosen  son-in-law.  There  is  something  sad  and 
touching  in  that  simple  history,  so  often  repeated. 
Whether  French  parents  will  ever  have  a  higher  ideal 
for  their  daughters  than  mere  purity,  and  simplicity, 
and  ignorance,  it  is  difficult  to  say  ;  but  at  present, 
although  some  girls  are  bred  as  English  ones,  knowing 
good  and  evil,  it  is  always  a  great  disadvantage  to 
them  in  France,  though  a  rational  Englishman  would 
probably  like  them  all  the  better  for  it. 

Conversation  amongst  men  is  more  entertaining ; 
and  married  women,  especially  when  oldish,  talk  clev- 
erly, and  are  often  keen  politicians.  The  French  are 
at  their  ease  in  the  region  of  ideas,  and  so  their  con- 
versation has  the  charm  of  speculative  interest.  Be- 
sides, they  cultivate  conversation  as  an  art.  They 
read  less  than  we  do,  and  talk  more  and  better.  They 
become  eager  and  excited  in  the  elucidation  of  their 
thoughts,  which  seems  to  produce  a  sort  of  electrical 
flashing,  seen  in  England  only  in  rare  instances.  They 
have  the  fault  of  interrupting  each  other  very  uncere- 
moniously, and  in  that  respect  lack  politeness  ;  but 
this  is  an  affair  of  temperament.  They  do  not  hesitate 
in  speaking,  as  our  upper  classes  do.  Probably  in  the 
last  century  the  English  hesitated  less  ;  at  present  we 
hesitate  most  painfully,  and,  if  we  go  on,  perhaps  the 


268 


First  Head  Quarters. 


next  generation  will  not  be  able  to  express  itself  ver- 
bally at  all,  but  will  carry  on  conversation  by  writing. 

After  knowing  the  French  intimately  for  a  few 
years,  it  is  easy  to  see  what  ideas  are  dearest  to  their 
mind.  The  leading  ideas  are  the  key  to  all  national 
character.  The  English  national  ideas  are  religion, 
and  wealth,  and  political  liberty.  The  French  national 
ideas  are  religious  liberty,  political  equality,  and  na- 
tional strength.  The  difference  between  a  love  of 
religion  and  a  love  of  religious  liberty  is  obvious ;  the 
bare  conception  of  religious  liberty  only  awakens  in 
nations  which  are  internally  divided  on  religious  ques- 
tions. If  a  powerful  majority,  say  nine  tenths  of  the 
population  of  a  country,  heartily  accepts  a  particular 
form  of  faith,  it  will  compel  the  remaining  tenth  to 
conformity,  and  at  the  same  time  assert  that  there  is 
perfect  religious  liberty  in  the  country,  because  there 
is  really  no  desire  on  the  part  of  any  one  to  disobey 
the  governing  church.  Thus  it  has  been  recently  as- 
serted in  a  Spanish  newspaper  that  in  Spain  there  is 
perfect  religious  liberty,  because  every  one  has  really 
the  liberty  to  do  what  he  desires  —  that  is,  to  be  a  good 
Catholic,  for  no  true  Spaniard  could  desire  anything 
else.  The  English  conception  of  religious  liberty  is, 
on  one  or  two  points,  of  a  like  character,  especially 
with  reference  to  the  observance  of  Sunday,  on  which 
day  every  Englishman  has  perfect  liberty  to  do  what 
he  desires  —  that  is,  to  observe  it  in  the  Anglican 
manner,  for  no  true  Englishman  could  desire  anything 
else.  When  a  majority  becomes  sufficiently  strong  to 
call  itself  universal  unanimity,  it  soon  loses  the  power 
of  intellectually  apprehending  the  nature  of  individual 
liberty.    The  French  conception  of  religious  liberty  is, 


A  Little  French  City. 


269 


therefore,  unintelligible  to  many  other  nations.  It 
amounts  to  this,  that  on  the  grounds  of  religious  dog- 
ma no  government  has  the  right  to  impose  any  obser- 
vance on  the  whole  nation,  because,  whatever  the 
observance  may  be,  there  will  be  some  persons  in  the 
nation  who  do  not  mentally  believe  in  the  dogma  on 
which  it  is  grounded  ;  and  to  compel  these  to  con- 
formity would  be  an  act  of  religious  tyranny.  The 
arguments  advanced  by  Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill  in  his 
Essay  on  Liberty  were  already  familiar  in  their  es- 
sence to  the  popular  French  mind  ;  and  that  exquisite- 
ly-written treatise,  though  full  of  what  to  the  English 
may  seem  new  and  daring  speculation,  fell  with  the 
effect  of  truism  on  our  neighbors. 

The  French  are  not  nearly  so  sensitive  about  politi- 
cal liberty.  Louis  Napoleon  has  made  himself  a  secu- 
lar despot ;  but  he  would  never  dare  to  enforce  the 
observance  of  the  most  sacred  and  essential  ordinances 
of  the  Romish  Church  as  the  English  Parliament  en- 
forces the  observance  of  Sunday.  The  utmost  efforts 
have  been  made  by  the  clergy  to  induce  him  to  make 
a  religious  ceremony  essential  to  marriage  ;  but,  in 
spite  of  his  strong  desire  to  conciliate  the  Church,  he 
cannot  and  dare  not  yield  that  point.  And  so  much 
do  national  feelings  differ,  that  the  French  often  assert 
that,  little  as  they  love  Louis  Napoleon,  they  would 
rather  be  governed  by  him  seven  days  in  the  week 
than  by  an  English  Act  of  Parliament  on  the  first  day 
only. 

The  idea  of  political  equality,  in  the  French  sense, 
is  perhaps  even  less  intelligible  to  us  than  the  French 
conception  of  religious  liberty.  No  Frenchman  that 
ever  I  have  talked  with  has  advocated  the  crude 


270 


First  Head  Quarters. 


conception  of  equality  which  our  writers  amuse  them- 
selves by  refuting.  No  Frenchman  ever,  in  my  hear- 
ing, denied  the  natural  inequalities  inevitable  amongst 
men  ;  but  between  these  natural  inequalities  and  the 
attempt  to  represent  them  politically,  there  is,  they 
argue,  a  step  of  such  difficulty  that  it  is  wiser  never  to 
attempt  it.  They  say  that  our  political  inequalities 
are  purely  artificial  —  are  as  far  from  representing  the 
natural  inequalities  as  their  own  system  of  theoretical 
equality.  On  the  question  of  the  suffrage,  they  freely 
admit  the  inconveniences  of  giving  every  man  a  vote  ; 
but  our  system  of  boroughs,  by  which  one  small  town 
elects  a  member,  and  another  larger  one  is  unrepre- 
sented, does  not  seem  to  the  French  in  any  way  an 
accurate  imitation  of  the  natural  inequality.  In  all 
discussion  they  are  mercilessly  logical ;  and  the  Eng- 
lishman's argument  for  many  abuses,  that  they  work 
well  practically,  seems  to  the  French  mind  an  ignoble 
concession  to  the  basest  sort  of  expediency. 

There  is  also  a  moral  root  for  the  idea  of  equality 
in  the  French  mind  which  is  entirely  wanting  to  the 
English.  They  have  a  kind  of  self-respect  quite  dif- 
ferent from  ours.  The  sort  of  rudeness  from  persons 
of  superior  rank  which  Englishmen  accept  as  quite 
natural  and  right,  the  French  resent  as  impertinence. 
A  friend  of  mine  was  taking  a  drive  with  a  rich 
French  countess  in  a  country  where  the  rank  and 
position  of  the  countess  were  known  to  every  one. 
She  wanted  to  know  where  some  peasant  lived,  and, 
seeing  a  man  working  in  a  field  by  the  road-side, 
stopped  the  carriage  and  called  out,  "  Good  man, 
where  does  such  a  one  live?"  The  man  replied  sim- 
ply, "  Good  woman,  he  lives  at  such  a  place;"  he 


A  Little  French  City. 


271 


being  a  Frenchman,  with  the  idea  of  equality  in  his 
head.  Once,  in  Scotland,  I  heard  an  English  visitor 
call  out  to  a  laborer,  "  Man,  whose  boat  is  that  on  the 
lake?"  but  the  Scotchman  replied  with  deference.  It 
seems  intensely  absurd  to  the  English  to  have  to  be 
polite  to  poor  people  ;  yet  every  French  peasant  exacts 
courtesy.  A  thoughtful  Frenchman  would  tell  you 
that  by  this  courtesy  he  has  no  idea  of  denying  natural 
inequality  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  thereby  recognizes  its 
profoundly  mysterious  nature.  An  Englishman,  meet- 
ing a  man  evidently  much  poorer  than  himself,  has 
not  the  least  hesitation  about  treating  him  as  his  in- 
ferior ;  but  a  Frenchman  is  courteous  to  his  possible  I 
superiority  on  many  points  quite  as  important  as 
money.  And,  as  we  come  to  know  mankind  better, 
does  not  the  French  view  acquire  graver  claims  to 
consideration?  You  may  be  rich  and  famous,  and 
you  may  meet  in  the  street  some  poor  unknown  oper- 
ative, and  that  man  in  the  street  may  be,  for  anything 
you  know,  at  that  very  time  exercising  a  self-denial  so 
heroic,  that  no  moral  effort  you  ever  made  in  all  your 
life  is  to  be  compared  to  it.  Or  he  may  be  endowed 
with  natural  faculties  in  comparison  with  which  yours, 
though  everybody  has  heard  of  you,  are  commonplace. 
Let  us  be  courteous  to  his  possible  superiority ;  and, 
even  if  he  were  certainly  our  inferior  in  all  things, 
surely  our  superiority  is  not  so  godlike  that  we  are  / 
entitled  to  be  rude  to  him. 

These  ideas  go  so  far  in  France  that  I  could  relate 
many  astonishing  anecdotes  in  proof  of  them.  A 
French  lady  told  me  that  she  had  never  been  presented 
to  the  Queen  of  England,  because  she  thought  it  possi- 
ble that  the  Queen  would  not  treat  her  on  a  footing 


272 


First  Head  'Quarters. 


of  equality.  Now,  to  interpret  this  sentiment  coarsely 
as  a  pretension  on  the  lady's  part  to  equal  position 
with  Her  Majesty,  would  be  merely  to  misunderstand 
her.  The  Frenchwoman's  next  observation  explained 
her  meaning.  "  A  formal  recognition  of  such  wide 
difference  of  rank  is  a  complete  bar  to  the  interchange 
of  ideas ;  so  that  conversations  with  people  too  exalted 
to  be  contradicted  have  no  intellectual  interest."  And 
French  princes,  both  of  the  House  of  Orleans  and  the 
present  dynasty,  know  this  so  well  that  they  always 
meet  cultivated  Frenchmen  on  intellectual  grounds 
common  to  all,  recognizing  a  certain  philosophical 
equality  in  human  beings  beyond  the  distinctions  of 
rank. 

The  next  idea  —  that  of  national  strength  —  is  more 
powerful  in  France  than  with  us,  as  is  proved  by  the 
willing  consent  of  all  Frenchmen  to  the  conscription, 
and  their  unfailing  support  of  any  ruler,  no  matter 
how  tyrannical  at  home,  who  will  make  the  name  of 
France  great  and  terrible  abroad.  The  one  unpar- 
donable sin  of  Louis  Philippe  was,  that  France  under 
him  ceased  to  hold  that  supreme  position  in  European 
politics  which  all  Frenchmen  look  upon  as  her  natural 
right.  The  open  secret  of  Louis  Napoleon's  success 
is  that,  whatever  may- be  his  crimes,  he  has  undenia- 
bly put  France  into  the  proud  place  of  leader  in  the 
councils  of  Europe. 

A  striking  contrast  between  the  French  and  the 
English  is  the  faith  of  the  French  in  intellectual  con- 
clusions, and  their  readiness  to  carry  them  into  prac- 
tice ;  whilst  the  English  are  sceptical,  and,  in  secular 
matters,  believe  in  nothing  which  they  have  not  seen 
actually  at  work.    The  French  take  the  keenest  inter- 


A  Little  French  City. 


est  in  suggestions,  possibilities,  and  theories  of  all 
sorts  ;  but  only  a  very  few  English  minds  are  much 
interested  in  mere  speculation.  But  not  only  are  the 
French  speculative,  they  are  above  all  things  ardent 
to  make  speculations  realities.  In  France  there  is  but 
one  step  between  the  reception  of  an  idea  and  its 
realization  —  a  realization  often  so  premature  as  to 
justify  British  sneers  at  French  mobility,  but  often 
also  in  the  highest  degree  valuable  as  an  experiment. 

The  difference  between  the  two  nations  in  this 
respect  was  never  more  curiously  exemplified  than 
in  the  way  they  have  dealt  with  one  of  the  inevitable 
questions  of  modern  times  —  the  adoption  of  a  uniforn 
decimal  system  of  weights  and  measures  and  money. 
Every  intelligent  Englishman  has  been  well  aware  for 
many  years  that  the  English  confusion  in  these  things 
was  irrational  and  absurd  ;  but,  partly  from  hatred  to 
the  French,  and  partly  from  his  peculiar  unwilling- 
ness to  put  intellectual  conclusions  into  practice,  he 
has  gone  on  without  making  any  reform,  on  the  plea 

—  by  no  means  complimentary  to  the  intelligence  of 
his  countrymen  —  that  the  people  of  England  could 
not  learn  a  system  so  simple  that  any  school-boy  above 
ten  years  old  could  master  it  in  half  an  hour. 

The  Lycee  deserves  attention  as  a  specimen  of  a 
French  public  school.  It  is  a  very  long,  narrow,  and 
lofty  building,  on  the  site  of  the  old  wall  of  the  town, 
with  great  court-yards  and  a  chapel.  The  side  facing 
the  promenade  still  bears  many  marks  of  musket-balls 

—  a  reminiscence  of  the  invasion.  As  the  stranger 
walks  along  the  promenades,  under  those  lofty  walls, 
he  might  excusably  infer  that  the  principal  occupation 
of  the  students  within  was  the  production  of  horrible 

18 


274 


First  Head  Quarters. 


discords  on  all  kinds  of  instruments.  This  impres- 
sion, though  natural,  would,  however,  be  erroneous. 
A  system  of  education  is  carried  on  there,  which,  if 
not  in  every  respect  exactly  what  one  might  desire, 
has,  nevertheless,  the  qualities  of  steadiness,  regularity, 
and  discipline. 

A  striking  difference  between  English  and  French 
education  is,  that  in  England  the  education  of  the  up- 
per classes  is  almost  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
whilst  in  France  the  national  education  is  laic.  How 
far  this  may  seem  an  advantage  or  not,  depends  upon 
the  point  of  view  from  which  we  look  at  it.  If  it  is 
good  for  a  nation  to  be  governed  by  its  priesthood,  the 
English  system  is  unquestionably  the  better  of  the  two, 
for  it  gives  the  priesthood  absolute  power  over  a  very 
important  part  of  the  nation.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
clerical  authority  is,  as  some  assert,  a  kind  of  power 
naturally  hostile  to  intellectual  liberty,  it  need  not  sur- 
prise us  that  many  politicians  should  be  anxious  to 
place  national  education  in  the  hands  of  laymen. 

The  functionaries  in  a  French  Lycee  are  divisible 
into  three  classes,  —  Administrators,  Professors,  and 
Masters. 

The  Administration  consists  first  of  the  Proviseur, 
who  is  the  head  of  the  establishment,  and  directs 
everything ;  next,  the  Censeur,  whose  business  it  is  to 
attend  to  the  discipline  of  the  Lycee,  and  who,  there- 
fore, is  also  a  powerful  personage  ;  then  the  Treas- 
urer and  his  clerk,  who  are  called  the  Econome  and 
the  Commis  d' *  Economat.  The  Econome  is  master 
of  all  money  matters,  and  is  alone  responsible  for 
them,  not  to  the  Proviseur,  but  directly  to  the  Court 
of  Accounts.    He  has  an  office  where  he  and  his  clerk 


A  Little  French  City.  275 


keep  an  open  account  between  the  Lycee  and  every 
pupil  in  it,  and  between  the  Lycee  and  all  the  trades- 
people who  supply  it.  Even  the  Proviseur,  master 
absolute  in  everything  else,  cannot  spend  one  centime, 
nor  receive  one,  except  his  own  personal  salary. 
Lastly  there  is  the  chaplain  (Aumdnter),  whose  office 
is  purely  ecclesiastical,  and  who  exercises  little  or  no 
power  but  that  of  persuasion. 

The  Professors,  fifteen  in  number,  hear  and  exam- 
ine the  pupils,  but  are  not  present  when  they  prepare 
their  work.  There  are  five  professors  of  sciences  and 
ten  of  letters.  Of  the  former,  three  are  mathematical, 
and  two  teach  physics  and  chemistry.  Amongst  the 
professors  of  letters  there  is  one  for  English  and 
another  for  German  literature. 

The  eight  Masters  are  the  most  to  be  pitied.  It  is 
their  business  to  be  with  the  pupils  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  and  night,  except  during  class  hours,  which  are 
from  eight  A.  M.  to  ten  A.  M.,  and  from  two  P.  M.  to 
four  P.  M.  These  unlucky  masters  have  to  help  and 
direct  the  pupils  whilst  they  learn  their  lessons,  on 
which  account  they  are  called  "  maitres  repetzteurs" 
They  sleep  in  the  dormitories  with  the  pupils  ;  they 
walk  out  with  them  when  they  take  exercise  ;  they 
wratch  them  even  in  the  play-grounds.  To  my  mind, 
the  existence  of  one  of  these  masters  seems  absolutely 
insupportable.  Surely  the  calm  and  peace  of  the 
grave  must  have  a  great  attraction  for  men  who  are 
hardly  ever  alone,  whose  days  and  nights  are  passed 
amongst  scores  of  school-boys  !  I  wonder  whether 
they  envy  the  quiet  folk  in  the  cemetery. 

High  up  in  the  Lycee  there  is  an  infirmary,  and 
near  it  dwell  three  Sisters  of  Charity,  one  of  whom 


276 


First  Head  Quarters. 


manages  the  infirmary,  and  the  other  two  the  linen- 
room,  where  all  the  boys'  linen  is  kept,  nicely  folded 
and  clean,  on  pretty  oak  shelves,  which  exhale  a  pleas- 
ant perfume  of  lavender.  These  two  Sisters  have  to 
take  care  that  every  one  of  the  thousands  of  things 
under  their  charge  is  kept  in  good  order  and  repair. 
Sisters  of  Charity  have  no  choice  where  they  will  go, 
or  what  they  will  do.  The  Superior  of  this  little  sis- 
terhood of  three,  she  who  attends  to  the  infirmary,  was 
sent  here  quite  suddenly,  and,  for  anything  she  knows, 
may  be  sent  to  some  other  place,  and  quite  a  different 
sort  of  work,  any  day.  As  it  generally  happens  to 
these  good  women,  she  is  regarded  by  everybody  with 
the  utmost  respect  and  affection.  She  is  a  very  fat, 
good-tempered  person,  extremely  kind  and  obliging  to 
every  one,  and  like  a  tender  mother  to  the  boys  in  the 
infirmary.  She  is  very  sharp,  nevertheless,  and  soon 
finds  out  small  patients  who  sham  illness  to  escape 
work.  For  these,  as  the  good  Superior  revealed  to 
me  in  confidence,  she  has  a  simple  treatment  which 
effects  a  rapid  cure.  She  reduces  their  food  to  famine 
allowance  and  administers  a  nauseous  purgative.  The 
boys,  of  course,  very  soon  become  ravenously  hungry, 
and  can  stand  it  no  longer,  when  they  profess  them- 
selves quite  recovered,  that  they  may  return  to  the 
flesh-pots  of  the  refectory.* 

In  a  French  city  the  Lycee  is  the  embodiment  of 
modern  tendencies  and  aspirations,  and  the  cathedral 
of  mediaeval  ones.  The  Lycee  is  prosaic,  scientific, 
ugly,  a  place  of  hard  labor  for  young  brains,  preparing 
them  for  the  work  of  this  world  by  stern  discipline  of 


Since  this  was  written,  the  good  lady  is  dead. 


A  Little  French  City. 


277 


actual  acquisition,  leaving  no  time  for  dreaming  about 
lofty  ideas.  The  cathedral,  on  the  other  hand,  is  from 
end  to  end,  from  base  to  pinnacle,  a  great  world  of 
ideal  aspirations ;  a  place  to  which,  century  after  cen- 
tury, men  and  women  have  gone  purposely  to  get  rid 
of  the  wearisome  pressure  of  the  actual,  in  meditations 
on  the  past  histories  of  idealized  personages,  in  sweet 
brooding  over,  and  eager  longing  for,  the  bliss  of  a  far 
Paradise.  The  temper  of  the  Lycee  is  submission 
to  discipline  for  the  sake  of  knowledge  ;  the  temper 
of  the  Church  is  obedience  for  the  sake  of  heavenly 
protection.  In  the  first,  men  seek  to  correct  their 
weakness  by  getting  to  know,  for  they  attribute  it  to 
mere  ignorance  ;  in  the  second,  they  seek  strength  by 
prayer,  and  penance,  and  confession.  The  Lycee  and 
the  cathedral  are  in  more  ways  than  one  typical  of  the 
modern  and  mediaeval  ages.  Modern  education  is 
acquisitive  and  critical ;  the  legends  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  were  endlessly  inventive,  full  of  deep  feeling, 
and  passion,  and  power.  The  Lycee  is  as  prosaic  as 
a  Lancashire  factory  ;  it  is,  indeed,  a  sort  of  factory  for 
turning  raw  boy-material  into  bachelors.  The  cathe- 
dral is  all  poetry  ;  I  mean  that  every  part  of  it  affects 
our  emotional  nature  either  by  its  own  grandeur  or 
beauty,  or  by  its  allusion  to  histories  of  bright  virtue 
or  brave  fortitude.  And  this  emotional  result  is  inde- 
pendent of  belief  in  the  historical  truth  of  these  great 
legends  :  it  would  be  stronger,  no  doubt,  if  we  be- 
lieved them,  but  we  are  still  capable  of  feeling  their 
solemn  poetry  and  large  significance  as  we  feel  the 
poetry  and  significance  of  u  Sir  Galahad,"  or  "  The 
Idylls  of  the  King." 

Some  persons  are  so  constituted  that  it  is  necessary 


278 


First  Head  Quarters. 


to  their  happiness  to  live  near  some  noble  work  of  art 
or  nature.  A  mountain  is  satisfactory  to  them  because 
it  is  great  and  ever  new,  presenting  itself  every  hour 
under  aspects  so  unforeseen  that  one  can  gaze  at  it  for 
years  with  unflagging  interest.  To  some  minds,  to 
mine  amongst  others,  human  life  is  scarcely  supportable 
far  from  some  stately  and  magnificent  object,  worthy  of 
endless  study  and  admiration.  But  what  of  life  in  the 
plains?  Truly,  most  plains  are  dreary  enough  ;  but 
still  they  may  have  fine  trees,  or  a  cathedral.  And  in 
the  cathedral  here,  I  find  no  despicable  compensation  for 
the  loss  of  dear  old  Ben  Cruachan.  The  effects  of  light 
on  Cruachan  were  far  more  wonderful  and  interesting  ; 
but  still  it  is  something  to  see  the  cathedral  front  dark 
in  the  early  morning  when  the  sun  has  risen  behind  it, 
and  golden  in  the  glow  of  the  evening  when  he  lights 
all  its  carven  imagery.  Better  than  either  when  the 
sun  has  set  long  ago,  and  the  slenderly  columned 
arcades  lift  themselves  story  above  story,  pale  in  the 
clear,  calm  air,  and  the  white  statues  of  the  mitred  old 
archbishops  stand  ghostly  in  their  lofty  tower.  And 
then  is  the  time  to  enter  in,  and  feel  the  true  power  of 
the  place.  Just  before  the  Suisse  locks  all  the  doors, 
go  in,  and  yield  to  all  the  influences  that  await  you. 
Silent  worshippers  are  lingering  at  twenty  altars  yet* 
—  women,  all  of  them,  gathering  strength  to  bear  their 
sorrows.  They  are  praying  for  dear  friends,  dead  and 
living  ;  they  are  praying  to  be  sustained  in  their  daily 
trials.  You  find  them  in  little  groups  of  two  or  three, 
quite  silent  and  absorbed ;  and  here  and  there  one 
kneels  alone  in  some  dim  old  vaulted  chapel,  before 


*  There  are  twenty-five  altars  in  the  cathedral  at  Sens. 


A  Little  French  City. 


279 


an  altar  decked  with  flowers,  almost  invisible  now. 
And  above  the  altar  a  little  lamp  is  burning,  one  little 
speck  of  yellow  fire  shining  faintly,  yet  forever.  And 
all  the  painted  windows  gleam  with  a  strange  intensity, 
for  their  tracery  is  quite  black  now,  and  every  scrap 
of  glass  tells  with  tenfold  power.  Thousands  of 
figures  are  still  mysteriously  visible  —  angels  and  de- 
mons, prelates  and  warriors,  and  all  the  saints  and 
heroes  of  the  faith.  The  flames  of  hell  are  still  visibly 
crimson  ;  still  visibly  writhe  in  torture  the  companies 
of  the  damned.  But  the  Suisse  gathers  us  all  together 
—  us,  lovers  of  fine  art,  who  came  on  purpose  to  be 
pleasantly  thrilled  by  a  poetic  effect ;  and  those  others, 
the  poor  women,  who  came  to  pray  at  the  altars  of  the 
Blessed  Saints.  I  wonder  whether  he  does  not  miss 
one  now7  and  then,  lost  in  a  dream  of  Paradise,  or  pas- 
sionate prayer  for  the  dead,  far  in  some  lonely  chapel 
before  her  favored  shrine. 

A  Gothic  cathedral,  being  intended  originally  for  the 
great  ceremonies  of  the  Roman  Church,  can  only  be 
properly  seen  and  understood  when  one  of  these  cere- 
monies is  going  forward  in  it.  The  extreme  discrep- 
ancy between  the  splendor  of  our  old  English  cathe- 
drals, with  their  obvious  adaptation  to  the  Roman 
ritual,  and  the  simple  costume  and  observances  of  the 
English  Church,  strikes  every  artist  irresistibly.  The 
natural  completion  of  a  Gothic  cathedral  is  a.  visible 
bishop,  with  cope  and  mitre  and  crosier,  surrounded 
by  a  crowd  of  inferior  priests,  all  glowing  with  gold 
and  embroidery.  With  those  living  and  moving 
figures,  the  painted  windows  and  illuminated  vault 
have  a  natural  and  intelligible  relationship  ;  but  the 
wig  and  lawn  sleeves  (though  objects  of  ambition  to 


280 


First  Head  Quarters. 


the  clergy,  and  of  veneration  to  the  laity)  are  in  artis- 
tic harmony  with  no  English  cathedral  except  St. 
Paul's.  Of  course,  I  speak  here  only  of  the  aesthetic 
aspect  of  this  question,  and  do  not  meddle  with  the 
theological.  No  doubt,  in  separating  herself  from 
Rome,  England  did  wisely  to  display  the  outward  and 
visible  sign  of  her  separation  by  rejecting  the  sacerdo- 
tal vestments.  But  thence  came  a  discord  between 
the  old  temples  and  the  new  priests. 

Let  us  see  how  the  old  cathedral  here  looks  on  a 
great  day,  and  let  us  try  to  understand  what  sort  of 
ceremonies  these  Gothic  cathedrals  were  built  for. 

The  choir  is  enclosed  by  railings,  and  the  priests  do 
not  seem  to  care  very  much  whether  we  see  them  or 
not.  The  bishops,  in  the  middle  ages,  performed  their 
solemn  offices  in  a  kind  of  isolation  from  the  crowd, 
utterly  regardless  of  its  convenience  in  every  way. 
This  makes  us  understand  the  purpose  of  the  proces- 
sions. Without  processions,  as  a  Gothic  cathedral  is 
constructed,  not  one  person  in  a  hundred  would  ever 
see  the  bishop  at  all ;  so  he  and  his  priests  walk  round 
the  aisles,  blessing  the  kneeling  people. 

This  time  it  is  the  consecration  of  a  bishop  —  a  great 
event.  The  archbishop  has  allowed  carpenters  to  erect 
seats  in  the  aisles  near  the  choir,  to  let  us  get  a  peep 
at  the  ceremony.  Of  course,  many  spectators  find 
themselves  precisely  opposite  a  huge  pillar,  impervi- 
ous to  the  sight ;  and  there  they  sit,  seeing  nothing,  and 
asking  their  neighbors  what  is  going  on.  As  for  me, 
I  see  tolerably  well  through  the  iron  grating.  There 
are  three  prelates  with  stiff  golden  copes  and  tall 
mitres.  One  is  our  archbishop,  who  is  to  consecrate 
the  new  bishop.  There  are  also  two  other  bishops 
seated,  in  their  simple  violet  dress. 


A  Little  French  City. 


281 


The  archbishop  is  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  with  his 
back  to  the  altar.  The  elected  is  seated  in  front  of 
him,  with  the  assistant  bishops.  This  lasts  for  some 
time  in  perfect  silence.  One  of  the  bishops  then  rises, 
and  begs  the  archbishop,  in  Latin,  to  raise  the  elected 
to  the  o?zus  Episcoftatits.  The  archbishop  asks  for  the 
Apostolic  mandate.  It  is  read  by  a  secretary,  and  then 
the  archbishop  administers  the  oath,  which  is  long  and 
highly  curious.  After  that  comes  a  remarkable  cate- 
chism, to  which  the  elected  has  to  answer ;  and  every 
time  he  answers  he  rises  slightly  from  his  seat.  The 
catechism  over,  the  elected  is  conducted  between  the 
bishops  to  the  archbishop,  whose  hand  he  kisses,  kneel- 
ing. The  archbishop  turns  to  the  altar  with  the  bishops, 
and  confesses  ;  then  kisses  the  altar  and  incenses  it ; 
after  which  he  returns  to  his  seat. 

There  is  another  altar,  lower  down,  for  the  elected, 
and  there  he  says  mass  ;  but  before  that  he  is  invested 
with  some  pontifical  ornaments.  Then  all  chant  the 
great  Litany  of  the  Saints,  the  archbishop  on  his  knees 
with  all  the  bishops,  and  the  elected,  this  time,  pros- 
trate on  his  face.  It  is  strange  to  see  that  figure,  hab- 
ited so  splendidly,  stretched  motionless  on  the  ground 
whilst  the  slow,  monotonous  chant  goes  forward,  and 
one  wonders  whether  it  will  ever  have  an  end. 

It  does  end,  however,  at  last ;  and  then  the  arch- 
bishop stands  erect  before  his  chair,  and  the  elected 
falls  on  his  knees  before  him.  Then  they  open  a 
great  copy  of  the  Gospels,  and  put  the  open  book  on 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  elected,  clothing  him 
with  it,  as  it  were.  A  chaplain  behind  him  keeps  the 
book  from  falling. 

The  archbishop  and  the  assistant-bishops  touch  the 


282 


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head  of  the  elected,  saying,  "  Receive  thou  the  Holy 
Ghost. "  And  the  archbishop,  first  taking  the  mitre 
off,  prays,  standing.  Towards  the  close  of  the  long 
prayer  comes  an  allusion  to  the  splendor  of  the  He- 
brew sacerdotal  costume,  which  the  Roman  Church 
loves  to  recall  in  justification  of  her  own  magnificence. 

Then  they  tie  a  white  napkin  round  the  head  of  the 
elected,  who  is  now  anointed  by  the  archbishop.  After 
unction,  the  archbishop  prays  for  the  new  prelate  ;  and 
then  come  an  anthem  and  psalm,  both  recalling  the 
anointing  of  Aaron.  They  tie  a  long  white  napkin 
round  the  new  bishop's  neck,  and  his  hands  are  next 
anointed.  Now  that  the  hands  are  anointed,  they  are 
fit  to  hold  the  crosier,  which,  being  blessed,  is  given 
to  the  elected  ;  then  the  consecrated  ring  is  placed 
upon  his  finger.  All  this  time  the  elected  has  been 
under  the  book  of  the  Gospels,  which  is  now  removed. 
Then  the  archbishop  kisses  the  elected,  and  so  do  the 
other  bishops,  and  the  new  bishop  returns  to  his  own 
altar,  where  his  head  is  wiped  with  bread  and  linen, 
and  his  hair  combed  with  a  curious  antique  comb, 
which  has  served  that  purpose  for  ever  so  many 
centuries.  Then  he  washes  his  hands  ;  and  the  arch- 
bishop, seated  in  his  arm-chair,  also  washes  his.  The 
archbishop  takes  the  sacrament,  and  administers  it  to 
the  elected,  at  the  high  altar.  Then  he  blesses  the 
new  bishop's  mitre,  and  then  comes  the  great  moment 
when  the  mitre  is  finally  placed  by  the  three  prelates 
on  the  new  prelate's  head.  Lastly,  the  Episcopal 
gloves  are  blessed,  and  the  ring  is  taken  off,  and  the 
gloves  put  on,  and  the  ring  put  on  again  outside  the 
glove.  And  now  a  hymn  is  sung,  and  the  new  bishop 
walks  in  procession  all  through  the  church,  splendid 


A  Little  French  City.  283 


with  jewelled  mitre  and  silver  crosier,  blessing  the 
people  as  he  goes. 

Such  is  a  bare  and  naked  outline  of  the  ceremony. 
But  how  shall  I  paint  it  in  words?  —  how  tell  of  the 
gleaming  of  the  golden  vestments,  and  the  colored 
light  that  fell  upon  them  from  the  lofty  windows  of 
the  apse?  A  group  of  bishops  in  full  pontificals, 
close  to  the  high  altar  in  one  of  the  noblest  cathedrals 
the  Gothic  ages  have  left  us,  is  a  rare  and  wonderful 
sight  —  a  sight  never  to  be  seen  in  England,  and  mar- 
vellous to  our  eyes.  Yet  one  thing  still  was  wanting. 
The  splendid  bishops  and  the  Gothic  architecture 
agreed  quite  well  together  ;  but  what  of  the  people  ? 
I  longed  for  the  costumes  of  the  middle  ages  —  for 
the  knights  with  silken  robes  over  their  armor,  and 
ladies  dressed  in  rich  embroideries,  sitting  gorgeous, 
like  illumined  queens  in  missals,  or  like  Esther  on  the 
tapestry  in  the  Treasury  here,  where  she  is  innocently 
represented  as  a  magnificent  Burgundian  dame  of  the 
thirteenth  century. 

So  much  for  the  artistic  impressions  ;  philosophical 
reflections  the  reader  may  not  particularly  care  to 
hear.  But  one  thing  struck  me  as  curious.  In  the 
middle  of  the  choir  sat  Monsieur  Leverrier,  the  astron- 
omer —  a  person  who  holds,  I  believe,  the  heretical 
doctrine  of  the  revolution  of  the  earth,  and  who  has 
presumed  to  add  a  planet  to  the  discoveries  of  a 
profane  science.  Leverrier  and  the  bishops  seemed 
incongruous  elements ;  and  I  looked  at  his  sharp, 
intelligent  face,  to  see  whether  it  indicated  a  devout 
or  a  critical  spirit.  It  seemed  lively  and  interested, 
but  not  devout.  Well  for  you,  Monsieur  Leverrier, 
that  you  live  now,  rather  than  in  the  days  of  Galileo, 


284 


First  Head  Quarters. 


or  you  might  not  only  have  beheld  pontifical  splendor, 
but  felt  pontifical  power  !  There  are  dungeons  under 
the  Synodal  Hall  here,  good  for  heterodox  teachers  ! 

Another  spectator  was  more  affected.  There  was  a 
woman  at  a  little  distance  from  me,  and  exactly  oppo- 
site a  thick  pillar,  so  that  for  most  of  what  passed 
she  had  to  trust  the  accounts  of  her  neighbors  ;  and, 
indeed,  except  for  the  emotions  excited  by  feeling 
herself  physically  present  at  the  ceremony,  she,  poor 
thing,  might  just  as  well  have  been  at  home.  She 
kept  up  a  perpetual  stream  of  the  most  eager  inquiries 
as  to  what  was  going  on,  which  she  directed  to  every- 
body who  would  pay  any  attention  to  her.  "  What  is 
he  doing  now?  Is  he  really  anointed?  What  is  the 
archbishop  saying  now  —  is  he  praying  for  him?  Are 
his  hands  anointed  now?  and  have  they  given  him  the 
crosier?  Ah!  to  think  —  to  think  that  he  holds  the 
crosier !  Ah  me  !  I  have  confessed  to  him  many  and 
many  a  time  !  And  what  are  they  doing  now?  —  the 
ring — ah,  yes,  the  ring  !  —  have  they  put  it  on  ?  and,  — 
what  do  you  say?  —  have  they  taken  the  Gospels  off 
his  back?  Ah  me!  and  the  archbishop  has  kissed 
him  —  and  the  other  bishops,  have  they  kissed  him 
too?  Ah,  to  think  that  he  is  really  a  bishop  now  !  O 
God,  I  thank  Thee  that  I  have  lived  to  see  this  day  ! 99 

To  this  woman,  you  may  be  sure,  the  pageant  was 
anything  but  tedious  or  overdone.  To  an  uneducated 
Protestant  it  would  seem  absurd,  if  not  sinful.  To  a 
spectator  who  thinks,  it  is  merely  an  anachronism. 
We  must  remember  that  the  Roman  Church  holds  the 
principle  that  splendid  public  worship  is  a  sacrifice  of 
wealth  highly  acceptable  to  God  —  a  principle  which, 
whether  right  or  wrong,  has  been  held  by  all  religions 


A  Little  French  City, 


285 


except  the  Protestant.  Now,  once  admit  this  prin- 
ciple, and  where  are  you  to  stop?  Even  Protestants 
dress  well  to  go  to  church  ;  and,  as  Protestant  ladies 
consider  handsome  bonnets  and  fine  shawls  a  fit  ex- 
pression of  respect  for  the  house  of  God,  so,  I  imagine, 
might  a  pure-minded  prelate  don  his  glittering  mitre 
and  golden  cope  on  entering  the  presence  of  his 
Master.  As  for  our  archbishop,  splendid  as  he  is 
when  on  duty  before  the  altar,  he  is  as  simple  as 
Wellington  at  home.  His  income,  to  begin  with,  is 
less  than  the  tenth  part  of  the  income  of  an  English 
archbishop  ;  yet  this  income,  moderate  as  it  is,  might 
procure  him  luxuries  which  he  denies  himself.  For 
instance,  he  does  not  even  keep  a  carriage,  but  (though 
always  ill  and  infirm),  whenever  he  has  to  go  into  the 
country,  Monseigneur  goes  in  a  hired  fly.  One  day  I 
called  upon  him,  and  found  him  at  work,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  suffering,  in  a  room  altogether  destitute  of 
luxury,  and  with  no  comfort  except  a  fire,  a  plain 
arm-chair  or  two,  and  perfect  cleanliness.  The  ser- 
vant who  opened  the  door  was  as  simple  as  his  master, 
and  quietly  tucked  his  blue  apron  round  his  waist 
before  conducting  me  into  the  presence  of  Mon- 
seigneur. It  is  true  that  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury does  not  wear  such  gorgeous  pontificals  as  his 
brother  of  Sens,  but  in  all  the  splendor  of  this  world 
he  outshines  him  infinitely. 

As  to  the  effect  of  religious  pageantry  on  the  mind, 
[  suppose  our  age  has  outlived  it,  and  it  is  only  artists 
and  poets,  or  very  devout  women,  who  feel  it  occa- 
sionally still.  Even  royalty  has  all  but  abandoned  its 
costume,  and  kings  make  little  use  of  their  regalia, 
preferring  for  public  occasions  some  military  uniform, 


286 


First  Head  Quarters. 


and  for  private  ones  the  ordinary  dress  of  a  gentleman. 
But  in  the  preceding  ages  the  visible  splendor  of  high 
office  was  an  effectual  strengthening  of  the  hands  of 
rulers,  both  civil  and  ecclesiastical,  and  therefore  they 
wisely  paid  great  attention  to  it. 

It  was  a  fine  sight  when  the  procession  left  the 
cathedral,  and  the  great  doors,  eight  hundred  years 
old,  were  opened  before  the  new  bishop.  There  were 
real  monks,  with  shaven  heads  and  bare  feet,  such  as 
we  see  in  pictures,  and  the  four  prelates,  in  full  pon- 
tificals, with  all  their  attendant  priests,  followed  by 
hundreds  of  chanting  seminarists.  A  good  many 
women  were  waiting  about  the  door  to  have  their 
babies  blessed  by  the  new  bishop  ;  but  in  one  respect 
the  scene  differed  strangely  from  what  it  wrould  have 
been  in  the  middle  ages.  The  men  did  not  kneel. 
The  men  are  not  Catholics. 

Some  modern  writer  has  complained  bitterly  of  the 
separation  of  the  sexes  by  their  different  systems  of 
thought  and  education.  In  France  the  separation  is 
very  wide.  The  women,  generally,  are  Catholics  — 
the  men,  generally,  Deists.*  I  have  often  tried  to  get 
accurately  at  the  real  state  of  opinion,  but  it  is  not 
very  easy.  This  much,  however,  is  certain,  that  most 
educated  Frenchmen  are  Deists  of  a  type  not  unfairly 
represented  by  M.  Renan,  and  that  nearly  all  French- 
women in  good  society  observe  the  rites  of  the  Church 
of  Rome.  The  boys  are  Catholics  when  in  petticoats, 
but  turn  Deists  generally  between  fifteen  and  seven- 

*  Within  a  radius  of  one  hundred  miles  round  Paris.  In 
the  mountainous  and  southern  districts,  and  generally  in 
places  not  having  much  communication  with  Paris,  Catholi- 
cism is  still  a  great  power,  even  over  men. 


A  Little  French  City. 


287 


teen,  and  remain  so  all  their  lives.  This  difference  is, 
of  course,  a  cause  of  much  estrangement  in  families, 
because  a  Catholic  lady  finds  on  certain  subjects  a 
companionship  in  her  confessor  which  she  lacks  in 
her  husband. 

These  facts  may  serve  to  account  for  what  may  seem 
such  strange  contradictions  in  modern  France.  The 
position  of  the  Church,  for  instance,  is  both  very  weak 
and  very  strong.  The  direct  power  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  in  France  is  infinitely  smaller  than  that  of  the 
English  Church  in  England,  because  the  men  are 
openly  against  it ;  but  its  indirect  power,  through  the 
confessional,  is  still  very  considerable.  For  instance, 
the  English  Church  in  England  is  strong  enough  to 
repress  the  utterance  of  heterodox  opinions  in  general 
society,  but  in  French  society  such  opinions  are  dis- 
cussed with  perfect  freedom.  On  the  other  hand,  such 
is  the  influence  of  the  Roman  Church  in  France  over 
the  women,  that  fathers  who  hate  the  priests  find 
themselves  nevertheless  compelled  to  let  their  daugh- 
ters confess  themselves  to  priests,  because  a  girl  who 
should  omit  the  premiere  communion  would  find  her 
position  amongst  women  perfectly  unendurable.  And, 
as  Catholicism  in  women  is  co?nme  il  faut,  many  men 
in  France  like  girls  for  being  Catholics,  the  more  big- 
oted the  better,  though  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  any 
union  can  be  intellectually  complete  between  persons 
who  differ  so  widely  on  such  an  important  subject  as 
religion. 

As  to  morality,  I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
France,  on  the  whole,  is  a  more  immoral  country  than 
England ;  but  it  is  an  interesting  fact  that  French 
mothers  dread  sending  their  boys  to  London,  for  fear 


288 


First  Head  Quarters. 


of  the  dear  innocent  youths  being  contaminated  by  our 
bad  example.  The  more  ignorant  French,  too,  have 
a  horror  of  the  shocking  conduct  of  English  girls, 
whom  they  look  upon  as  lost  to  all  sense  of  decency 
and  propriety.  Our  institution  of  divorce,  though 
really  intended  to  work  in  the  interests  of  morality 
itself,  is  looked  upon  by  all  well-bred  Frenchwomen 
as  abominably  wrong  and  immoral ;  and  they  say  it  is 
hypocritical  to  affect  to  consider  marriage  divine  and 
eternal,  when,  by  our  Divorce  Court,  we  have  virtual- 
ly reduced  it  to  a  connection  binding  only  during  good 
behavior.  I  think  an  unprejudiced  observer  would 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  between  young  English- 
men and  young  Frenchmen  there  is  really  very  little 
difference,  but  that  (in  spite  of  our  divorce  scandals) 
marriage  is  less  generally  respected  by  our  neighbors 
than  by  us.    That  is  about  a  fair  statement  of  the  case. 

Frenchwomen  are  generally  very  active  in  their 
houses,  giving  the  whole  of  the  morning  to  busy 
superintendence  of  their  servants.  French  ladies, 
even  rich  ones,  are  often  excellent  cooks.  Their 
kitchens  are  pretty  laboratories,  with  tiny  charcoal 
fires  sunk  in  tables  of  clean  porcelain,  and  rows  of 
many-sized  copper  pans,  shining  like  gold.  The  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  a  lady  can  cook,  and  still  be  con- 
ventionally a  lady,  is  beyond  my  depth  ;  but  that  a 
woman  may  be  accomplished  in  all  household  duties, 
and  still  be  both  cultivated  in  mind  and  noble  in  feel- 
ing, is  proved  by  many  examples.  Eugenie  de  Guerin 
is  a  good  instance  ;  but  the  French  provinces  abound 
with  such.  Charles  Dickens  had  a  very  telling  bit 
once  about  the  De  Quelquechoses,  the  great  point  of 
which  was,  that  Madame  was  to  be  seen  in  a  morning 


A  Little  French  City. 


289 


in  a  plain  dress,  hard  at  work  with  her  servants,  to  the 
astonishment  of  some  English  ladies,  who  visited  her. 
And  quite  right,  too.  Probably  she  was  far  too  sensi- 
ble a  dame  to  run  the  risk  of  soiling  a  handsome  dress  ; 
so  she  wore  a  plain  print  (often  washed)  when  she 
was  busy  in  the  house,  and  reserved  her  better  things 
for  the  drawing-room.* 

The  Church  has  survived  the  noblesse,  and  the 
bishops  are  the  only  noblesse  which  still,  in  ordinary 
conversation,  receives  the  title  of  seigneur.  This  is 
perhaps  due  to  the  fact  that  episcopal  rank  is  official, 
and  not  hereditary,  the  natural  tendency  of  democracy 
being  to  elevate  official  rank  by  making  it  the  only  dis- 
tinction. It  is  difficult  for  an  Englishman  to  realize 
how  exceedingly  unimportant  in  France  are  even  the 
most  ancient  and  authentic  titles  of  nobility.  Whether 
you  are  Count  de  B.  or  Marquis  de  B.,  you  are  always 
spoken  of  as  Monsieur  de  B.  Let  the  reader  imagine 
how  much  title  would  be  cheapened  in  England  if  our 
peers  were  always  spoken  of  as  Mister  so-and-so,  and 
if  the  public  knew  and  cared  as  little  about  their  titles 
of  nobility  as  it  does  at  present  about  their  coats  of 
arms. 

The  Cafe,  an  institution  so  dear  to  Frenchmen, 
flourishes  even  in  this  little  city.  One  night  I  went 
with  a  friend  to  a  cafe  here,  and  heard  something  new. 
We  had  hardly  been  there  five  minutes  when  our  talk 
was  interrupted  by  a  shrill  sound,  so  strange  as  to 
startle  us  all,  and  break  at  once  the  varied  threads  of 

*  Ten  to  one,  too,  she  wore  a  clean  white  cap,  to  keep  the 
dust  from  her  hair ;  which,  to  English  eyes,  completes  the  re- 
semblance to  a  servant. 

l9 


290 


First  Head  Quarters. 


at  least  twenty  conversations.  What  could  it  be?  It 
continued,  like  the  warbling  of  a  nightingale,  and  then 
burst  into  a  wild,  sad  melody,  softly  and  tenderly  exe- 
cuted, as  if  on  a  flute.  Still  we  felt  that  it  was  not  a 
flute,  nor  yet  a  bird.  It  came,  apparently,  from  a 
youth  seated  at  a  little  table  by  himself  in  the  middle 
of  the  cafe.  He  was  playing  upon  his  hands,  using 
no  other  instrument.  He  went  on,  and  executed  sev- 
eral airs  from  well-known  operas— at  first  with  taste 
and  truth ;  then,  afterwards,  when  he  got  tired,  he 
began  to  play  out  of  tune.  Still  it  is  very  wonderful 
to  be  able  to  make  so  efficient  a  musical  instrument 
out  of  one's  two  hands.  The  young  man  turned  out 
to  be  a  Portuguese,  called  Ferreira.* 

Besides  a  great  many  cafes,  and  a  funny  little  thea- 
tre, Sens  supports  two  establishments  of  baths.  At 
any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  you  may  have  a  bath 
brought  to  your  house,  with  water  ready  heated,  and 
carried  up  into  your  bedroom,  for  the  moderate  price 
of  sevenpence  halfpenny  before  ten  P.  M.,  and  a  shil- 
ling and  a  halfpenny  after.    The  little  old  French 

*  He  does  not  whistle  at  all ;  it  is  pure  flute-playing.  The 
notes  are  produced  on  the  left  hand,  and  he  plays  upon  it  with 
his  right.  The  four  fingers  of  the  left  hand  are  opened  like 
the  letter  V;  two  fingers  on  each  side.  The  mouth  is  inserted 
in  the  opening,  so  that  the  tips  of  the  fingers  come  near  the 
eyes.  The  thumb  of  the  right  hand  is  placed  on  the  palm  of 
the  left,  and  the  fingers  play  freely,  as  it  seems,  in  the  air ; 
but  they  affect  every  note.  If  the  reader  attempts  to  produce 
a  musical  sound  that  way  he  will  probably  fail,  but  Ferreira 
produces  two  octaves  and  a  half.  His  fortissimo  is  tremen- 
dously strong,  and  his  pianissimo  as  faint  as  the  distant  war- 
bling of  a  lark.  His  musical  art  is  very  unequal ;  he  soon  tires 
himself,  and,  when  tired,  loses  precision. 


A  Little  French  City, 


291 


wash-hand  basins  and  cream  jugs  are  of  course  detesta- 
ble, but  the  big  cheap  warm  bath  is  a  capital  cleanser. 

The  French  are  wonderfully  fond  of  bathing.  All 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  here  meet  early  on  the  fine 
summer  mornings  (between  five  and  eight  o'clock)  to 
bathe  in  the  river  —  in  full  costumes,  of  course.  The 
ladies  who  happen  to  be  well  made,  look  graceful 
enough  in  their  pretty  bathing  dresses,  but  the  meagre 
ones  and  the  corpulent  ones  do  not  appear  to  advan- 
tage. The  gentlemen  teach  their  wives  and  sisters. to 
swim,  and  there  is  an  old  sailor  who  gives  regular 
lessons  all  the  summer  through.  They  stay  in  the 
water  very  long,  and  try  to  swim  very  energetically. 
Their  perseverance  is  often  rewarded  by  considerable 
proficiency  in  that  accomplishment. 

Enormous  rafts  of  wood  come  down  the  river,  and 
it  is  curious  to  see  how  two  men  can  manage  them. 
One  stands  at  the  bow  and  another  at  the  stern.  The 
man  in  front  has  a  thick  pole  that  he  puts  into  the 
water,  so  that  one  end  rests  on  the  river's  bed  and  the 
other  is  caught  under  a  ledge  contrived  for  it  in  the 
side  of  the  raft.  The  end  of  the  raft  then  takes  a  leap, 
exactly  as  a  man  does  with  a  leaping  pole.  It  is  raised 
out  of  the  water,  and  at  the  same  time  pushed  aside. 
By  repeating  this  operation  at  the  four  corners  of  the 
raft,  whenever  necessary,  it  is  easily  guided.  These 
rafts,  sometimes  several  hundred  feet  long,  are  pictu- 
resque objects,  with  their  little  huts  and  the  smoke  of 
their  fires  rising  from  a  vast  flow  of  half-submerged 
wood.  At  night  the  rafts  are  moored  by  the  river 
shore,  and  then  their  bright  fires  are  highly  desirable 
as  warnings  to  belated  canotiers.  One  very  dark 
night,  when  I  was  rowing  homewards  down  the 


292 


First  Head  Quarters. 


stream  at  speed,  my  boat  (a  delicate  one,  by  Picot  of 
Asnieres)  came  into  collision  with  one  of  these  rafts 
whose  fires  were  out.  Luckily,  the  boat  rose  upon 
the  raft,  and  received  no  injury ;  but  I  had  a  French- 
man with  me  whose  nervous  system  experienced  such 
a  shock  that  he  has  never  stepped  into  it  since. 

The  great  Pear  boats  are  a  wonderful  sight.  I  have 
seen  as  many  pears  at  once,  in  the  boats,  and  on  the 
quay,  as  would  cover  the  floor  of  Westminster  Hall 
a  foot  deep  ;  and  all  these  pears  were  gathered  in  a 
little  circle  round  Sens.  Indeed,  I  never  saw  a  place 
with  a  market  so  abundantly  supplied  in  proportion  to 
the  population.  M.  Deligand,  the  maire,  having  been 
struck  by  the  same  idea,  took  the  trouble  to  get  some 
statistics,  which  he  gave  me.  The  population  is  now 
about  1 1 ,000.  On  the  Monday  market  twenty  thou- 
sand dozens  of  eggs  are  sold,  and  six  thousand 
strangers  came  into  the  town,  bringing  with  them 
fifteen  hundred  carts.  Fancy  a  proportionate  influx 
of  strangers  into  London  once  a  week !  and  imagine, 
if  you  can,  a  proportionate  quantity  of  eggs !  And 
not  only  for  its  boundless  abundance,  but  its  delightful 
variety,  is  this  market  astonishing  to  an  Englishman. 
You  find  so  many  good  things  that  the  wonder  is,  how 
such  a  little  town  can  eat  them  up.  The  secret  is, 
that  Sens  is  one  of  the  feeders  of  Paris,  whose  provis- 
ion merchants  and  fruiterers  buy  largely. 

The  name  of  our  maire,  M.  Deligand,  reminds  me 
of  one  of  his  chief  functions,  that  of  marrying  people ; 
and  this  brings  me  to  the  marriage  of  the  Rosiere. 
The  Rosiere  is  a  girl  who  bears  a  rose  awarded  to  her 
by  the  authorities  for  her  good  character.  Amongst 
the  blameless  virgins  of  the  place  they  try  to  choose 


A  Little  French  City.  293 


the  most  deserving.  She  gets  a  little  dowry  of  twenty- 
four  pounds,  left  by  will  for  the  purpose,  and  is  mar- 
ried publicly  with  great  eclat  by  the  maire  on  the 
feast  of  the  Assumption.  I  was  present  at  the  last 
marriage  of  the  kind  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  The  court- 
yard was  lined  by  a  corps  of  Sapeurs  Pompiers  (the 
Fire  Brigade),  in  full  military  uniform,  with  a  band. 
The  maire  and  sous-prefet  came  in  splendid  cere- 
monial costume.  All  the  municipal  council  and  offi- 
cial persons  were  present.  We  waited  some  time  for 
the  fair  bearer  of  the  rose.  At  last  she  came,  with 
her  betrothed — a  quiet  girl,  not  particularly  good- 
looking,  and  evidently  rather  bothered  by  the  publicity 
of  the  ceremony.  It  must  indeed  have  been  very  try- 
ing for  her,  the  centre  of  all  eyes,  the  subject  of  in- 
numerable comments.  I  think  she  earned  her  little 
dowry.  Not  every  maiden  would  face  that  ordeal  for 
the  sum  of  four-and-twenty  pounds. 

At  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  the  marriage  took 
place,  is  a  library  and  little  museum,  whose  chief 
treasures  are  some  relics  of  Napoleon's  life  at  St. 
Helena.  One  is  a  copy  of  Beatson's  map  of  St.  He- 
lena, on  which  Napoleon  had  traced  some  plan  of 
escape  in  red  lines.  He  was  hesitating,  perhaps,  be- 
tween Europe  and  Brazil,  for  both  words  occur  in  his 
handwriting.  A  still  more  interesting  object  is  an 
atlas,  with  a  map  of  a  part  of  Asia  in  it,  on  which 
Napoleon's  red  line  runs  from  Cairo  to  the  Indus. 
On  the  margin  at  the  right  hand  are  a  good  many 
figures  in  his  handwriting  :  — 

30,000 

22,000  infanterie. 
4,700  caval. 
3  artil. 


294 


First  Head  Quarters. 


On  the  left  is  a  rough  calculation  of  time  required. 
There  is  also  Fleury  de  Chaboulon's  book  of  Memoirs, 
with  Napoleon's  critical  notes.  His  writing,  at  first 
sight  apparently  rather  neat,  is  in  reality  very  difficult 
to  read.  Though  well  used  to  French  scribblings  of 
all  sorts,  I  never  met  with  a  more  illegible  hand. 

I  mentioned  my  painting-tent  in  the  beginning  of 
this  chapter.  I  have  had  a  camp  on  the  heights  for 
the  autumnal  months,  guarded  by  a  promising  youth, 
who  had  just  come  out  of  prison  when  I  engaged 
him,  and  enlisted  for  a  soldier  when  I  wanted  him 
no  longer.  One  morning,  on  going  to  my  work,  it 
struck  me  that  Jacob  looked  unusually  grave;  and, 
indeed,  he  had  a  long  story  ready  about  somebody  who 
had  fired  upon  the  painting-tent.  Surely  enough  the 
tent  was  riddled  with  shot ;  but  I  felt  inclined  to 
believe  that  Jacob  himself,  who  had  a  gun  for  his  pro- 
tection, had  been,  by  accident  or  carelessness,  the  real 
author  of  the  injury.  A  much  more  serious  annoy- 
ance was  the  number  of  spectators,  who  thonged  from 
all  parts  to  see  the  tent ;  and  they  all  made  exactly  the 
same  remarks  that  the  Lancashire  peasants  used  to 
make.  The  Lancastrians  said,  "  He's  makin'  a  map  ;  " 
the  Burgundians  say,  "II  tire  un  plan"  The  Lan- 
castrians said,  "  Isn't  it  cold  of  a  neet?"  the  Bur- 
gundians say,  "II  doit  faire  froid  la  nuit."  The 
Lancastrians  said,  "It's  tinkers;"  the  Burgundians, 
u  Ce  sont  des  chaudronniers"  In  the  course  of  two 
months  and  a  half,  thousands  of  people  came  to  see 
the  tent,  and,  as  they  all  said  exactly  the  same  things 
and  asked  exactly  the  same  questions,  their  visits  were 
less  amusing  to  me  than  to  them.    One  day  came 


A  Little  French  City. 


295 


mounted  gendarmes,  armed  and  terrible.  Feeling 
perfectly  guiltless,  I  paid  no  attention  to  their  cries ; 
so  one  of  them,  forced  to  dismount,  came  heavily  on 
foot,  ascending  the  steep  against  his  will.  When  he 
got  to  the  tent  at  last,  he  was  very  much  out  of  breath, 
and  out  of  temper  too.  It  appeared  that  my  Impru- 
dent Jacob  had  been  amusing  himself  with  shooting 
in  the  air,  and  that  the  shot  had  fallen  on  a  gentleman 
on  horseback  (riding  leisurely  on  the  public  road  be- 
low), and  that  the  horse,  unaccustomed  to  that  sort 
of  rain,  had  been  unpleasantly  restive  in  consequence. 
So  the  gentleman  had  lodged  a  complaint,  and  Jacob 
got  severely  reprimanded,  which  didn't  seem  to  affect 
his  serenity.  Indeed,  I  never  saw  a  youth  endowed 
with  such  enviable  serenity  of  mind.  Scolding  had 
no  effect  upon  him  ;  and  he  had  a  little,  jaunty,  self- 
satisfied  manner  which  never  failed  him  under  the 
most  trying  circumstances.  It  was  capital  to  hear 
him  tell  the  story  of  his  imprisonment,  and  the  fight 
which  led  to  it.  He  had  been  dancing  at  an  open-air 
ball,  and  some  bourgeois  in  tailcoats  had  resented  the 
intrusion  of  Jacob  and  one  or  two  other  blouses.  On 
this  the  blouses  maintained  their  rights  ;  and,  when 
the  police  came  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  the 
gallant  blouses  fought  both  the  tailcoats  and  the 
police.  Who  would  not  fight  bravely  in  such  a 
position,  inflamed  with  wine,  and  under  the  very 
eyes  of  beauty?  But  the  blouses  were  vanquished 
and  marched  off  to  prison,  and  the  hated  bourgeois 
danced  in  triumph. 


296 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    SLOPES   OF  GOLD. 

A  SMALL  piece  of  orchard  and  vineyard  ground 
on  the  heights  of  the  Cote  d'Or  came  into  the 
present  writer's  possession  by  events  which  it  is  not 
necessary  to  recount  here.  The  land  in  itself  is  of 
little  value,  but  the  position  of  it  is  so  fine  that  it  is 
the  very  place  for  an  encampment.  The  reader  is 
requested  to  picture  to  himself  the  three  tents  in  this 
delightful  situation.  There  is  no  use  in  describing 
camp  life  in  itself ;  we  have  already  had  enough  of 
that,  down  to  very  minute  details.  Let  us  rather  see 
what  can  interest  us  in  the  country  round  about  the 
camp. 

First,  the  great  plain  at  our  feet,  stretching  away  to 
the  Jura.  It  seems  infinitely  vast ;  and  as  the  cloud 
shadows  fall  on  its  remote  villages,  and  creep  from 
farm  to  farm,  from  castle  to  castle,  darkening  a 
thousand  groves  in  turn,  innumerable  details  come 
forth  and  are  brought  into  momentary  prominence. 
At  the  first  glance  it  seems  as  if  a  flat  plain  like  this 
would  soon  have  told  its  story  ;  but  after  gazing  at  it 
for  an  hour,  we  begin  to  perceive  that  it  has  not  one 
story  to  reveal,  but  rather  an  infinite  succession  of 
revelations.  Day  after  day  we  may  come  to  it,  and 
every  day  find  a  fresh  reading.  Like  those  magic 
Eastern  inscriptions  which   changed  from  hour  to 


The  Slopes  of  Gold* 


hour,  this  prodigious  sheet  of  land  changes  from 
minute  to  minute. 

We  are  on  the  stony  height,  a  little  above  the  best 
vine  land  ;  but  just  below  us  runs  that  wonderful  line 
of  vineyards  which  extends,  with  little  interruption,  to 
the  banks  of  the  Yonne  in  the  north,  and  southwards 
by  those  of  the  Rhone.  And  here  we  are  in  the 
richest  vineyards  of  them  all.  It  is  a  land  of  wine  ; 
they  say  there  is  more  wine  in  it  than  water ;  the 
people  all  drink  wine,  and  talk  wine,  and  think 
wine.  From  the  wealthy  proprietor,  or  successful 
wine  merchant,  down  to  the  poorest  working  vine- 
dresser, the  whole  soul  of  the  population  is  steeped 
in  vintages. 

An  old  friend  of  mine  being  a  wine  merchant  in 
these  regions,  I  have  seen  all  the  principal  cellars. 
It  was  agreed  between  us  that  I  should  accompany 
him  for  two  or  three  days  on  a  purchasing  tour.  We 
started  early  one  morning  in  a  carriage,  and  set  about 
our  business  systematically.  Wine  merchants  have 
little  shallow  silver  cups,  with  shining  bosses  at  the 
bottom  to  see  the  color  and  clearness  of  the  wine. 
One  of  these  cups  my  friend  gave  me. 

I  foresee  some  difficulty  if  I  am  to  go  on  calling  this 
wrine  merchant  "  my  friend,"  "  my  companion/'  and 
so  on,  all  through  this  chapter.  Why  not  call  him 
by  his  name?  —  it  can  do  him  no  possible  harm;  it 
involves  no  breach  of  confidence.  His  name  is 
Charles  Rasse.* 

Rasse  gave  me  one  of  those  little  shallow  silver 

*  Of  course,  I  have  M.  Rasse's  permission  to  mention  his 
name. 


298 


The  Slopes  of  Gold, 


cups,  and  it  was  my  luck  in  the  course  of  that  tour 
to  see  the  bright  little  bosses  colored  by  the  ruby  of  all 
the  famous  vineyards  in  Burgundy.  Our  days  were 
dedicated  to  business,  and  yet  passed  in  an  unremit- 
ting sacrifice  to  Bacchus.  We  began  tasting  almost 
as  soon  as  the  carriage  started  on  its  road,  and  we 
continued,  with  short  intervals  employed  in  driving 
rapidly  from  cellar  to  cellar,  village  to  village,  until 
nearly  noon,  when  we  had  dejeuner,  prepared  by  a 
cook  of  local  celebrity.  Now,  for  a  cook  to  be  at 
all  eminent  in  Burgundy  is  as  difficult  as  it  is  for  a 
surgeon  to  make  himself  famous  in  Paris  ;  for  Bur- 
gundy is  the  land  of  good  living,  and  all  Burgundians 
are  professed  gourmets.  My  impression  about  that 
dejeuner  was  that,  as  I  had  to  drink  of  all  the  wines 
in  the  country,  so  I  was  doomed  to  eat  of  all  its 
dishes  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  the  repast  in 
question,  instead  of  being  a  relief  from  the  wine- 
tasting,  was,  if  possible,  an  intensification  of  it.  We 
had  now  not  merely  to  taste,  but  to  drink.  Rasse, 
being  experienced  in  such  work,  had  always  taken 
the  precaution,  in  the  wine  cellars,  of  expectorating 
every  drop  that  passed  his  lips  ;  but  I  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  bring  myself  to  that  sinful  wastefulness, 
and  had  honestly  swallowed  every  sample.  So  we 
did  not  start  fair ;  and  then  Rasse  is  a  Burgundian 
by  birth,  and  good  wine  is  just  as  natural  to  him  as 
w^ater  to  a  Scotch  Highlander. 

After  dejeuner  arrived  a  neighboring  gentleman 
with  bottles  of  white  wine  from  his  own  cellar,  of 
whose  extraordinary  virtues  we  were  to  judge  ex- 
perimentally. So  we  drank  these  with  him,  and 
then  continued   our   tour.     How   many  cellars  we 


The  Slopes  of  Gold.  299 

visited  I  really  cannot  tell,  but  they  cannot  have 
been  fewer  than  fifty,  and  on  the  average  we  tasted 
say  eight  casks  in  each  cellar  ;  that  would  give  four 
hundred  tastings,  which  is  probably  about  the  mark. 
By  the  time  the  work  was  done,  I  was  utterly  weary 
of  Burgundy,  and  the  more  that  we  had  it  at  every 
meal.  Of  course,  I  soon  got  over  my  scruples  against 
spitting  the  wine  out,  and  tried  to  imitate  Rasse  not 
only  in  that,  but  also  in  the  brook-like  gurgling  sound 
that  wine  merchants  make,  and  which  they  seem  to 
consider  essential  to  a  right  appreciation  of  different 
vintages.  Hearing  so  much  wine-talk  too,  I  amused 
myself  occasionally  by  pretending  to  know  something 
about  the  subject,  and  by  mere  accident  made  remarks 
which  caused  me  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  judge.  The 
great  point  is  to  give  yourself  the  requisite  airs.  If 
you  can  do  the  gurgling  neatly  and  melodiously,  ex- 
pectorate vigorously  and  far,  and  then  look  very  grave 
and  wise  for  a  few  seconds  without  saying  anything, 
you  are  sure  to  be  respected,  and  your  opinion  will 
be  listened  to  with  deference. 

The  quantities  of  wine  kept  in  those  cellars  in  Bur- 
gundy are  prodigious.  It  is  not  my  business  to  give 
statistical  information,  as  I  only  talk  about  what 
strikes  me ;  but  some  of  the  larger  wine-growers 
have  whole  armies  of  casks,  and  cellars  like  railway 
tunnels.  The  wealth  of  the  peasant  growers  is  often 
very  considerable.  You  may  frequently  meet  a  rough- 
looking  man  in  a  blue  blouse  and  wooden  shoes  who 
has  three  or  four  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  wine  in 
casks,  besides  valuable  landed  property  and  buildings. 
One  such  at  Volnay,  living  in  the  simplest  manner, 
made  us  drink  some  bottled  wine  that  he  had  kept 


3°° 


The  Slopes  of  Gold, 


fourteen  years ;  but  I  prefer  it  seven  years  younger. 
The  union  of  easy  fortune  with  the  habits  and  educa- 
tion of  the  poor  is  a  social  phenomenon  which  I  have 
never  seen  so  frequently  as  in  Burgundy,  except  in  the 
Lancashire  cotton  district,  —  especially  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Oldham.  In  one  sense  the  rich  peasant  is  the 
richest  of  men,  in  the  proportion  of  his  large  means  to 
his  little  wants  ;  but  in  another  sense  is  he  not  just  as 
poor  as  the  common  laborer?  His  money  opens  for 
him  no  new  fields  of  intellectual  advancement ;  it  does 
not  improve  him  as  a  human  being.  He  has  leisure 
at  command,  but  can  make  no  use  of  it ;  he  might  buy 
books,  but  he  could  not  read  them  ;  he  might  travel, 
but  he  does  not  know  where  to  go,  or  what  to  go  any- 
where for.  The  benefit  and  enjoyment  which  he  has 
are  the  peace  of  security  and  the  pride  of  possession. 
These  are  no  doubt  sweet,  and  he  sucks  their  sweet- 
ness all  day  long. 

The  Clos  Vougeot,  as  most  readers  will  already 
know,  is  a  small  property  enclosed  wTith  a  wall,  and 
yielding  the  best  wine  in  Burgundy.  It  is  not  so  gen- 
erally known  that  this  enclosure  contains  a  very  fine 
old  building,  like  a  chateau,  where  the  business  of  the 
wine  making  and  that  of  its  preservation  have  been 
carried  on  for  six  hundred  years.  The  exterior  of  this 
structure  is  imposing,  but  plain ;  the  court-yard  is 
picturesque  in  the  highest  degree.  The  cellars  are  of 
course  immense,  and  exceedingly  well  kept.  As  to  the 
quality  of  the  wine,  it  is,  in  my  humble  opinion,  exactly 
on  the  same  level  as  two  or  three  other  of  the  very 
best  Burgundies,  and  does  not  deserve  that  isolated 
pre-eminence  which  fame  has  given  it.  There  is  no 
better  wine  in  France,  however.    Drink  of  this  quality 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


301 


is  lost  on  Englishmen  (except  exceptions),  and  it  is  a 
sin  to  throw  it  away  on  them.  Thinking  I  could  take 
no  more  acceptable  present  to  some  English  friends 
than  a  few  bottles  of  Clos  Vougeot,  I  found  that  the 
gentlemen  (sherry  drinkers)  considered  it  a  variety  of 
"  Gladstone,"  and  the  ladies  (lovers  of  sugary  cham- 
pagne) compared  it  to  red  ink  ;  and  that  was  Clos 
Vougeot,  perfectly  authentic  and  pure.  It  is  certain 
that  English  palates  are  generally  quite  incapable  of 
tasting  the  taste  on  which  the  fame  of  such  wine  is 
founded.  We  are  not  prepared  for  it,  as  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  country  are,  by  drinking  nothing  but 
inferior  wines  of  the  same  species  :  they  recognize  the 
superiority  at  once,  and  feel  the  value  of  the  quality 
which  constitutes  it.  The  consequence  of  this  inca- 
pacity to  taste,  is,  that  Englishmen  dare  not  buy  wine 
on  their  own  judgment,  but  must  put  confidence  in 
their  wine  merchant.  I  know  a  wine  merchant  in 
Burgundy  who  does  a  large  business  in  England,  and 
I  know  another  who,  with  the  very  same  wines,  could 
hardly  get  any  customers  at  all,  the  difference  being 
entirely  due  to  a  difference  of  confidence.  They  say 
in  Burgundy  that  when  the  English  believe  in  you 
they  buy  blindly,  whereas,  until  you  get  them  to  that 
point,  they  are  most  difficult  to  deal  with,  because 
they  have  no  judgment  of  their  own  to  which  you 
may  appeal.  The  Belgians,  on  the  contrary,  are  able 
judges  ;  and  a  young  merchant  going  amongst  them 
with  good  wine  at  a  fair  price  is  recognized  at  once. 
The  Swiss  are  sometimes  good  judges  also,  but  the 
Parisians  are  nearly  as  bad  as  the  English. 

The  same  laws  which  govern  the  trade  in  art  gov- 
ern that  in  wine.    When  there  is  little  knowledge  to 


302 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


appeal  to,  the  name  is  more  than  the  thing.    "  This  is 

Clos  Vougeot,  and  I  got  it  of  ,"  is  equivalent  to, 

"  This  is  a  Claude  ;  it  belonged  to  Tf  judgment 

were  perfect,  there  would  be  no  need  of  names,  and 
no  advantage  in  them  ;  things  would  then  be  sold  for 
their  qualities. 

The  landscape  of  the  Cote  d'Or  may  be  very  briefly 
described  as  to  its  chief  characteristics.  It  is  the  first 
rising  of  the  highlands  of  the  Morvan  out  of  the  great 
plain  ;  and  as  the  plain  is  so  vast  that  no  shadow, 
except  that  of  a  cloud,  falls  on  this  steep  bank,  and  as 
the  soil  is  excellent  for  the  vine,  the  slope  is  exactly 
fitted  by  nature  for  the  production  of  grapes.  The 
cote  is  occasionally  interrupted  by  a  rocky  ravine,  and 
is  itself  often  rugged.  The  buildings  are  not  generally 
picturesque,  because  the  people  are  too  well  off ;  but 
the  churches  are  often  interesting,  and  the  town  of 
Beaune,  with  its  glorious  Gothic  hospital,  and  walls, 
and  towers,  is  a  capital  place  for  an  etcher.  How  I 
wish  Meryon  could  be  induced  to  spend  a  year  there  ! 
The  chateau  of  Savigny  is  very  grand  in  its  way,  and 
has  a  good  staircase  inside,  which  the  owner  kindly 
showed  me.  I  particularly  admired  the  massiveness 
of  its  round  tourelles. 

There  was  another  chateau  far  up  in  the  hills  that 
Rasse  took  me  to  see  —  a  picturesque  one  also,  but 
incredibly  rough,  and  bearing  about  the  same  relation 
to  an  ordinary  gentleman's  house  that  the  piece  of 
agate  you  pick  up  on  the  sea-shore  does  to  a  piece 
which  has  passed  through  the  hands' of  the  lapidary. 
In  the  grand  staircase  the  steps  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  hewn  with  an  axe.  This  chateau,  however,  was 
probably  only  built  for  a  hunting  seat. 


The  Slopes  of  Gold, 


After  leaving  this  wild  place  amongst  the  upper 
forests,  we  followed  a  narrow  country  road  which  led 
us  into  a  remote  valley  —  a  valley  which  seemed  to 
me  so  exquisitely  peaceful  and  beautiful  that  I  wanted 
veiy  much  to  live  there  ;  and  as  this  desire  was  per- 
fectly serious,  Rasse  took  me  to  see  a  large  mansion 
which  was  for  sale  —  a  charming  place,  with  pleasant 
gardens  and  fountains,  and  a  delightful  view  down  all 
the  little  valley.  The  only  fault  of  this  place  was,  that 
it  seemed  likely  to  be  beyond  my  purse  —  a  consider- 
ation which  often  arrests  the  inquirer  after  desirable 
places  of  residence.  I  mention  this  hankering  of 
mine,  because  the  reader  is  going  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  capitalist  who  did  eventually  pur- 
chase that  mansion. 

We  entered  a  straggling  village,  and  Rasse  asked  if 
I  were  hungry.  I  pleaded  guilty  to  the  soft  impeach- 
ment. The  reader  thinks  it  absurd  to  call  an  implied 
accusation  of  hunger  a  u  soft  impeachment."  He  does 
not  know  the  story  which  the  expression  recalls  to  the 
initiated,  and  so,  whilst  Rasse  is  going  on  with  the 
carriage,  I  will  tell  it  him. 

A  country  lad  in  Lancashire  took  to  reading,  and 
became  so  fond  of  that  deleterious  occupation  that  he 
got  to  be  fit  for  nothing  but  a  schoolmaster.  So  his 
friends  sent  him  to  Liverpool  to  be  taught  that  trade, 
and  as  he  had  walked  more  than  thirty  miles,  his 
master's  wife  asked  if  he  were  not  hungry.  After 
seeking  a  moment  for  a  phrase  of  suitable  elegance 
fitted  for  urbane  society,  he  replied  that  he  "  pleaded 
guilty  to  the  soft  impeachment." 

Being  in  the  same  condition  as  this  polite  youth,  I 
was  not  ill  pleased  when  my  friend  said  to  me,  "  I 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


know  a  peasant  here  who  will  be  glad  to  see  us,  and 
give  us  dejeitner ;"  and  we  stopped  at  the  bottom  of  a 
picturesque  external  stair,  at  the  top  of  which  appeared 
a  peasant  with  a  red  face,  gold  earrings,  blue  blouse, 
and  sabots  —  a  jolly,  friendly-looking  man. 

He  took  the  horse  to  the  stable,  and  in  a  minute 
ascended  the  stair  with  us.  It  was  a  clean  simple 
room  with  beds  in  it,  a  stove,  a  table  in  the  middle, 
covered  with  a  table-cloth  so  coarse  that  it  seemed  as 
if  one  looked  at  it  through  a  microscope,  knives  and 
forks,  and  tumbler-glasses.  On  the  stove  were  many 
plates  heating,  and  at  two  sides  of  the  stove  sat  two 
sable  priests,  warming  themselves  like  the  plates. 

Now,  as  a  priest,  when  not  in  the  presence  of  his 
bishop,  or  of  some  pious  lady  who  has  a  lofty  ideal  of 
the  priestly  character,  is  usually  the  jolliest  of  festive 
companions,  I  was  by  no  means  sorry  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  these  two  comfortable  cures.  It  is 
said  by  profound  philosophers  that,  in  order  to  enjoy 
thoroughly  a  good  thing  that  we  possess,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  have  some  still  better  and  more  desirable 
enjoyment  in  prospect.  That  explains  why  these 
priests  looked  so  extremely  happy  by  the  stove ;  the 
heat  of  it  was  agreeable,  but  a  still  more  agreeable 
pleasure  awaited  them  —  the  long  delight  of  an  elabo- 
rate dejeuner. 

Some  readers  may  not  have  had  the  advantage  of 
taking  breakfast  with  a  rich  Burgundian  peasant  the 
day  he  entertains  his  spiritual  pastors,  and  such  can 
have  little  idea  of  what  a  breakfast  of  that  sort  consists 
of.  It  is  not  a  simple  meal  of  coffee  and  eggs,  but 
rather  a  dinner,  or  two  dinners,  three  dinners,  four 
dinners,  served  in  rapid  succession.    Rasse  whispered 


The  Slopes  of  Gold, 


to  me  that  we  could  not  have  been  more  fortunate ; 
for  where  priests  fed  the  pasture  was  sure  to  be  good. 

''Approach  yourselves  then  of  the  fire,"  said  the 
old  gray-haired  priest ;  "  it  makes  cold  to-day.  Come 
you  from  far? " 

In  fiv^e  minutes  we  were  engaged  in  a  conversation 
on  the  one  wearisome  Burgundian  topic — the  vintage. 
This  lasted  till  the  mistress  of  the  house  entered  from 
the  inner  regions,  followed  by  her  daughter  and  heir- 
ess, a  fresh-looking  girl  of  fifteen.  She  welcomed  us 
cordially,  and  shortly  announced  that  we  might  sit 
down  to  table. 

On  this  the  master  and  the  priests  sat  down,  and 
Rasse  and  I  sat  down ;  but  the  mistress  and  her 
daughter  sat  not  down  neither  then  nor  during  all  the 
hours  that  the  repast  lasted.  They  served  us,  and  we 
ate  and  ate. 

Knowing  well  what  to  expect,  I  reserved  myself  as 
much  as  possible.  We  had  soup,  of  course  ;  a  peasant 
begins  his  dejemter  wTith  soup,  which,  in  the  upper 
classes,  no  one  would  dare  to  serve  or  venture  to  like 
before  five  in  the  evening.  After  the  soup  came,  as 
usual,  beef  boiled  to  rags,  and  divested  of  every  parti- 
cle of  nutriment.  This  it  is  wisest  to  leave  to  French- 
men, who  can  digest  anything.  But  I  knew  that  bet- 
ter food  would  come,  according  to  the  Emperor's 
sagacious  maxim,  "  Tout  vient  a  celui  qui  salt  atten- 
dre"  and  I  adopted  the  policy  of  a  masterly  inactivity. 

We  had  countless  dishes  of  meat  and  poultry  and 
game,  and  at  last  an  elaborate  dessert.  By  the  time 
we  had  done  we  had  been  sitting  four  hours,  and  the 
table  was  covered  with  emptied  or  half-emptied  bot- 
tles. And  during  all  those  hours  our  host  neve? 
20 


306 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


uttered  two  consecutive  sentences,  but  only  asked  us 
briefly  to  eat  and  drink,  for  the  two  priests  talked  so 
fast  and  so  loudly,  and  so  energetically,  that  nobody 
could  get  a  word  in.  The  more  they  drank  the 
louder  they  talked  ;  and  at  last  came  a  moment  when 
they  could  no  longer  continue  their  controversy  on 
their  chairs,  but  rose  up  to  their  feet  and  argued 
standing  for  more  than  an  hour,  with  fierce  and  vio- 
lent gesticulation. 

And  what  was  all  this  fiery  controversy  about?  It 
was  about  a  pinch  of  snufY.    Here  it  is,  epitomized  :  — 

First,  how  it  began.  —  When  we  had  well  drunk, 
the  gray  priest  offered  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  the  com- 
pany :  our  host  accepted,  Rasse  accepted,  I  accepted, 
and  sneezed  for  five  minutes  without  intermission,  but 
the  young  black-haired  priest  stoutly  refused.  He 
never  took  snuff,  he  said.  It  was  just  one  of  those 
opportunities  which  any  one  who  has  the  spirit  of 
persecution,  the  instinct  which  compels  others  to  con- 
formity, will  not  allow  to  pass  unimproved.  The 
moment  had  arrived  for  the  assertion  and  mainte- 
nance of  a  great  principle.  "  I  take  snuff,  the  ma- 
jority take  snuff ;  you,  a  contemptible  minority,  dare 
to  assume  the  right  not  to  take  snuff;  then  I  say  you 
shall  take  snuff."  "  I  will  not."  "  But  you  ought." 
"No,  I  oughtn't."  "But  you  ought,  and  you  shall." 
"  There  is  no  moral  obligation  on  me  to  put  any 
snuff  up  my  nose."  "  But  I  say  there  is,  under  the 
circumstances."  * 

*  As  the  reader  is  sure  to  think  that  all  this  is  pure  fiction,  I 
give  him  my  word  of  honor  that  the  whole  scene,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  is  as  near  literal  truth  as  I  can  possibly  get  it. 
It  loses  a  great  deal  by  translation  and  abridgment;  but  if  I 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


307 


When  this  had  gone  on  for  a  minute  or  two,  the 
gray  priest  got  exasperated  and  stood  up,  giving  a 
sweep  with  his  arm  which  knocked  over  a  bottle  and 
broke  our  hostess's  handsomest  glass  water-jug  —  an 
accident  that  threw  a  cloud  over  her  face  for  the  rest 
of  that  day,  and  I  have  no  doubt  to  this  hour  embitters 
her  recollection  of  it. 

Old  Priest  (with  the  greatest  gravity  and  in  full 
oratorical  style).  —  You  have  violated  the  rules  of 
courtesy.  I  offered  you  my  box  :  that  box  contained 
a  powder  which,  for  the  moment,  represented  my 
friendly  feelings  towards  all  to  whom  I  offered  it. 
Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  it  was  not  a  simple  material 
powder  that  I  tendered  you,  and  that  you  scornfully 
refused,  but  the  feelings  which  produce  good  compan- 
ionship? No,  no,  interrupt  me  not.  It  is  in  vain  for 
you  to  deny  the  fact ;  you  have  been  guilty  of  a  gross 
breach  of  good  manners.  Have  you  never,  w7hen  a 
child,  read  a  small  treatise  from  which  you  still,  in 
mature  years,  might  learn  much  that  would  be  profit- 
able to  you  — "  Of  Civility,  Puerile  and  Polite  "  ? 
Therein  you  would  have  found  a  principle  laid  down 
which  might  have  guided  you  in  your  present  difficul- 
ty, and  saved  you  from  a  solecism  which,  I  venture  to 
assert,  has  lowered  you  in  the  opinion  of  all  present. 
Gentlemen,  your  generosity  prompts  you  to  intervene 
to  shield  this  offender  from  my  just  indignation,  but 

had  written  it  in  French,  as  I  thought  of  doing  at  first,  many 
readers  would  have  skipped  it;  and  if  I  had  not  abridged  it, 
the  dialogue  would  have  occupied  a  hundred  pages  of  this  im- 
pression. Of  course,  I  do  not  give  the  name  of  the  place 
where  it  occurred,  for  fear  of  injuring  the  younger  priest ;  the 
elder  is  since  dead. 


3o8 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


you  well  know  that  his  conduct  is  utterly  indefensible. 
Every  boy  knows  that  when  anything  is  offered  him 
out  of  good  fellowship,  he  cannot  refuse  it  without 
hurting  and  injuring  the  person  who  offers  it.  I  feel 
hurt  —  I  have  a  right  to  complain ;    I  have  been 

wounded  in  my  feelings  ;  I  

During  the  last  dozen  lines  the  young  priest  had 
been  on  his  legs  too,  and  talking  just  as  loudly  as  the 
other. 

Young  Priest.  —  I  never  intended  to  hurt  your 
feelings  —  I  don't  want  to  hurt  anybody's  feelings; 
but  I  have  a  right  to  my  own  nose.  You  like  snuff ; 
well,  then,  take  it.  If  these  gentlemen  like  snuff,  they 
do  right  to  take  it ;  but  I  don't  like  it  at  all  —  it  is 
positively  disagreeable  to  me  ;  so  I  decline  it.  I 
don't  decline  your  fellowship  ;  I  eat  with  you,  I  drink 
with  you  

The  Author  {thinking  that  probably  the  old 
priest  could  not  smoke  and  the  young  one  could).  — 
And  most  likely  you  would  smoke  with  him  —  would 
you  not? 

Young  Priest.  —  My  dear,  good,  kind  gentleman, 
nothing  would  please  me  better  just  now  than  to  smoke 
with  you,  and  him  too,  if  he  will. 

The  Author  {handing  his  cigar-case  to  the  old 
priest  Jirst). — Will  you  accept  a  cigar?  {then  to  the 
younger)  —  And  you  ? 

Young  priest  accepts  with  avidity,  and  seizes  the 
author's  hand,  which  he  holds  long  and  presses 
warmly  ;  old  priest  declines  firmly. 

The  Author  to  Old  Priest.  —  Sir,  you  are  now 
guilty  of  the  offence  you  impute  to  your  brother  across 
the  table,  and  that  to  its  fullest  extent.    I  offer  you  a 


The  Slopes  of  Gold,        ,  309 

cigar  :  that  cigar  is  not  a  miserable  roll  of  dried  tobac- 
co leaves  ;  it  is  a  portion  of  my  heart  —  an  expression 
of  good  will  and  kindly  convivial  feeling.  You  refuse 
me,  you  reject  me,  you  scorn  my  friendly  advances ;  I 
consider  myself  aggrieved,  I  am  hurt,  I  am  wounded. 

Old  Priest.  —  But  I  can't  smoke,  and  I  can't  bear 
to  be  where  people  smoke  ;  and  if  you  smoke  here,  I 
protest  against  it  —  it  is  most  offensive  to  me. 

The  Author.  —  Is  a  miserable  consideration  for 
your  own  ease  to  make  you  forget  the  rules  of  cour- 
tesy ?  Is  it  not  all  the  more  your  duty  to  smoke,  that 
it  makes  you  ill?  Is  not  this  precisely  one  of  those 
cases  where  a  man  is  called  upon  to  sacrifice  his  own 
ease  to  the  happiness  of  others  ?  It  is  necessary  that 
you  should  smoke,  merely  to  conform  to  the  custom  of 
the  people  you  are  with.  We  all  smoke ;  you  must 
and  shall  consume  this  cigar. 

Old  Priest.  —  The  two  cases  are  entirely  different. 

Young  Priest.  —  I  have  as  much  right  to  my  nose 
as  you  have  to  the  tranquillity  of  your  stomach. 

Old  Priest. — 'What  would  you  do  if  your  bishop 
offered  you  a  pinch  of  snuff?  would  you  refuse  it?  I 
say  you  wouldn't. 

Young  Priest.  —  Well,  if  I  didn't,  I  should  only 
pretend  to  value  it,  but  really  dribble  it  away  quietly 
on  the  floor. 

Old  Priest.  —  That  was  precisely  your  duty  in  the 
present  instance.  If  you  could  not  take  the  snuff,  you 
should  have  accepted  it  nevertheless,  and  then  allowed 
the  powder  to  fall  gently  upon  your  clothes  in  imitat- 
ing the  action  of  taking  a  pinch. 

Young  Priest.  —  I  believe  you  are  a  Jesuit. 

Old  Priest.  —  And  you're  another. 


The  Slopes  &f  Gold. 


Young  Priest.  —  I  want  to  smoke.  Our  host  per- 
mits ;  these  gentlemen  are  waiting  your  leave  to  light 
their  cigars.    Can  you  selfishly  refuse  it? 

Old  Priest.  —  I  decidedly  object  to  smoking. 

Our  Host.  —  If  you  will  let  us  smoke,  I  will  bring 
you  some  more  wine. 

Exit  host.  Re-enter  host  with  six  bottles  of  white 
Burgundy  of  different  growths- — two  under  each 
arm,  one  in  each  hand.  General  murmurs  of  ap- 
plause. Old  priest  relents.  We  are  all  reconciled. 
Young  priest  gets  very  polite  to  our  hosfs  pretty 
daughter,  who  now  enters  the  room. 

Our  hospitable  entertainer  in  the  blouse  bought  the 
mansion,  with  its  gardens,  and  fountains,  and  woods  ; 
and  he  left  the  little  cottage  where  we  feasted  that  day, 
and  went  to  live  in  the  great  house.  He  was  one  of 
that  numerous  class  of  steady  savers  which  exists  in 
France.  They  save  quietly  every  year,  and  nobody 
notices  them  ;  but  at  last  they  suddenly  astonish  us  by 
making  some  wonderful  purchase.  When  we  left  the 
two  priests  at  the  top  of  the  little  stair,  they  returned 
to  table  to  finish  the  white  wine,  and  after  that  they 
had  dinner,  and  after  that  more  wine,  till  it  was  quite 
late,  and  then  they  got  home  somehow  to  bed. 

The  elder  of  them  told  us  that  he  had  lately  knocked 
down  the  doctor  under  the  following  circumstances : 
The  doctor  was  very  deaf,  and  came  one  night  late  to 
see  the  priest.  "  Who  goes  there?"  No  answer;  so 
he  knocked  him  down.  This  reminded  me  of  what 
had  very  nearly  been  a  tragic  incident.  A  relation 
of  mine  heard  one  night  a  noise  down  stairs ;  so  he 
jumped  out  of  bed,  took  his  loaded  fowling-piece,  and 
made  his  way  in  the  dark  to  the  place  the  noise  seemed 


The  Slopes  of  Gold. 


311 


to  come  from.  He  distinctly  heard  stealthy  footsteps 
on  the  carpet.  "Who  are  you?"  No  answer.  "An- 
swer me,  or  I  will  fire  upon  you  ! "  No  answer.  He 
lifted  the  gun  to  his  shoulder,  and  had  the  finger  on 
the  trigger,  when  the  intruder  coughed.  He  knew 
the  cough  at  once  :  it  was  a  deaf  old  lady  who  lived 
with  him,  and  had  come  down  stairs  to  seek  for  some- 
thing. 

It  is  probable  that  my  ecclesiastical  companions 
would  have  been  rather  better  on  their  guard  if  they 
had  suspected  me  of  being  an  Englishman  ;  but  they 
took  me  for  a  Frenchman  all  the  time,  and  it  seemed 
better  not  to  undeceive  them.  Peculiar  circumstances 
in  my  life  have  made  me  what  is  called  a  bilingual, 
and  I  enjoy  easy  access  to  all  country  people  in  France, 
because  they  never  take  me  for  a  foreigner.  In  Paris 
it  is  different.  The  English  abound  there,  and  my 
English  face  betrays  me  ;  besides,  when  people  see 
you  are  an  Englishman,  they  hear  your  English  ac- 
cent, when  it  would  else  be  imperceptible.  A  very 
amusing  instance  of  this  occurred  to  a  lady  I  know 
intimately.  She  came  to  settle  in  a  country  town, 
where,  for  some  reason,  a  rumor  went  abroad  that 
she  was  an  American.  Several  ladies  went  to  call 
upon  her,  and  complimented  her  on  speaking  French 
so  wrell  for  an  American,  though  of  course,  they  always 
added,  the  foreign  accent  was  still  very  perceptible. 
Now,  the  fact  is,  that  the  lady  in  question  not  only  was 
not  an  American,  but  was  a  genuine  Frenchwoman, 
born  of  French  parents,  bred  in  France,  and  never  out 
of  it  in  her  life  except  once  for  a  month  at  Brussels. 
Her  husband,  too,  was  a  Frenchman  ;  and  neither  he 
nor  she  had  any  foreign  accent  whatever,  nor  any 


312 


The  Slopes  of  Gold, 


peculiarity  of  accent,  except  a  slight  Burgundian 
twang,  which,  as  the  little  town  in  question  was 
situated  in  Burgundy,  ought  not  to  have  sounded 
American.  Moral:  If  people  can  hear  an  accent 
which  does  not  exist,  when  they  wrongly  believe  the 
person  to  be  a  foreigner,  by  so  much  the  more  will 
they  hear  it  when  it  does  exist,  if  they  know  the  person 
to  be  avowedly  a  foreigner.  To  escape  suspicion  alto- 
gether, an  Englishman  perfectly  master  of  French 
may  say  that  he  comes  from  another  part  of  France, 
or  that  he  is  a  Frenchman  who  has  lived  a  year  or  two 
in  England. 

In  parting  with  these  two  jolly  priests,  let  me  cite 
an  anecdote  which  is  narrated  of  one  of  them.  Being 
one  day  at  the  table  of  his  bishop,  monseigneur  deigned 
to  ask  his  opinion  of  the  wine.  "  Bonus  vinum,"  said 
the  priest.  The  bishop  was  rather  surprised  at  such 
an  exhibition  of  weak  Latinity,  but  kindly  said  noth- 
ing. Later  in  the  evening  he  again  asked  the  priest's 
opinion  on  wine,  but  this  time  of  far  superior  quality. 
"  Bonum  vinum,"  answered  the  priest.  "  May  I  ask," 
said  the  bishop,  "  why,  when  I  last  referred  to  your 
judgment,  you  made  vinum  masculine,  whereas  now 
you  conform  to  the  common  practice,  and  make  it 
neuter  ?  " 

"  A  petit  vin,  petit  Latin"  said  the  cure. 


3*3 


CHAPTER  III. 

SECOND  HEAD  QUARTERS.  A  FARM  IN  THE  AUTUNOIS. 

IT  being  understood  that  there  is  no  further  necessity 
for  dwelling  on  the  details  of  camp  life,  I  still  con- 
tinue the  policy  adopted  throughout  this  third  book ; 
and,  looking  round  me  attentively,  but  never  purposely 
seeking  literary  material,  briefly  note  down  anything 
that  seems  likely  to  amuse  or  interest  the  reader. 

On  leaving  the  "  little  French  city"  I  found  a  coun- 
try house  which  suited  me,  in  the  basin  of  Autun.  It 
has  a  good  deal  of  land  attached  to  it,  which  is  not  in 
my  occupation.  The  farmer  lives  near  me,  and  the 
only  land  I  am  troubled  with  is  a  large  garden  and  a 
little  wood,  both  bounded  by  a  clear  and  rapid  stream. 

As  to  the  camp,  I  have  it  yet  in  good  working 
condition,  and  use  it  occasionally  still ;  but  in  this 
beautiful  climate  a  painting  tent  is  scarcely  necessary, 
except  for  winter  studies.  And  the  summers  are  so 
long  and  splendid  that  it  is  possible  to  accumulate,  in 
the  fine  weather,  abundant  materials  for  studio  work 
when  it  rains.  It  is  nevertheless  the  fact  that  the  tents 
are  still  pitched  from  time  to  time  in  these  regions, 
which  gives  me  a  fair  excuse  for  including  these  chap- 
ters in  the  narrative  of  the  Camp. 

The  natural  configuration  of  the  country  is  curious 
and  interesting.  As  the  traveller  passes  from  Dijon  to 
Lyons  by  the  railway,  he  sees  upon  his  left  hand  the 


314  Second.  Head  Quarters. 

heights  of  the  Cote  d'Or.  That  is  the  beginning  of  an 
elevated  tract  of  country  which  culminates  in  the 
Beuvray,  a  hill  of  rather  fine  form,  but  not  a  moun- 
tain, and  then  descends  to  the  Nivernais  and  the 
Loire.  Round  about  the  Beuvray  lies  a  region  of 
hilly  land,  densely  covered  with  wood.  This  is  the 
Morvan.  French  people  generally  have  a  most  exag- 
gerated idea  of  these  Morvan  highlands  ;  they  tell  you 
it  is  Switzerland  over  again,  which  is  nonsense.  The 
plain  truth  is,  that  the  Morvan  is  a  highly  picturesque 
and  salubrious  region,  enjoying  a  climate  as  fine  as 
that  of  the  Burgundy  wine  country,  but  cooler,  and 
with  hills  just  high  enough  to  give  very  varied  and 
agreeable  distances  whichever  way  you  look.  Though 
not  so  grand  as  Switzerland,  it  is,  as  a  place  of  resi- 
dence, preferable  to  it.  It  seemed  more  prudent,  too, 
in  my  own  case,  to  study  landscape  of  a  comparatively 
humble  kind,  and  I  found  here  the  two.  conditions  of 
good  climate  and  available  material  united  in  perfec- 
tion. I  was  anxious  to  be  in  a  neighborhood  where 
the  work  of  agriculture  was  done  by  oxen,  and  here 
they  universally  employ  them.  The  oxen  used  here 
are  of  a  very  fine  race,  the  Charolaise:  there  is  also 
an  inferior,  but  still  picturesque,  native  race,  the  Mor- 
vandelle.  The  Charolais  ox  is  usually  large,  and  of  a 
cream  white  or  tawny ;  the  Morvandeau  is  small,  and 
often  quite  black,  or  black  and  white.  Another  great 
point  with  me  was,  that  there  should  be  picturesque 
buildings  within  an  easy  drive  of  my  house  ;  and  these 
I  have  in  great  abundance,  for  Autun  is  full  of  them, 
and  most  of  the  farms  and  villages  round  are  good 
subjects  for  an  artist.  In  water  we  are  tolerably  well 
off  also,  having  a  good  many  tarns,  or  large  fish-ponds, 


A  Far i?i  i7t  the  Autunois.  315 


several  beautiful  streams,  and  a  river.  There  are 
plenty  of  magnificent  trees,  especially  some  very  an- 
cient chestnuts,  and  the  whole  series  of  plants  from  the 
land  of  the  vine  to  the  land  of  heather  and  furze. 

The  people  who  inhabit  these  highlands  differ  in 
race,  language,  and  manners  from  those  in  the  plain. 
This  country  has  always  been  a  poorer  country  than 
the  Cote  d'Or,  and  consequently  the  people  are  more 
frugal.  No  contrast  could  be  greater  than  the  ways 
of  living  on  the  hills  and  in  the  lowlands.  The  Mor- 
vandeau  is  as  sober  as  the  true  Burgundian  is  given 
to  good  eating  and  drinking.  It  is  only  quite  recently 
that  the  Morvandeau  has  begun  to  drink  wine  at  all ; 
a  generation  back,  many  of  them  did  not  know  the 
taste  of  it,  and  nobody  but  the  rich  drank  it  habitually. 
Beer,  too,  was  unknown,  and  coffee  and  tea  never  so 
much  as  thought  of,  the  only  drinks  being  water, 
milk,  and  a  kind  of  mead.  To  this  day  much  of  this 
extreme  sobriety  is  retained  in  ordinary  life,  and  only 
laid  aside  from  time  to  time  at  festivals  and  fairs.  The 
peasants  drink  little  else  than  water ;  the  rude  labors 
of  the  harvest  are  carried  through  without  other  re- 
freshment than  the  contents  of  a  water-jug ;  and  the 
only  animal  food  commonly  used  is  what  can  be  got 
out  of  the  wearers  of  silken  attire,  by  which  elegant 
periphrase  they  are  accustomed  to  designate  their  pigs. 

The  Morvandeaux  being  an  isolated  and  peculiar 
people,  they  are,  of  course,  disliked  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  lowlands,  who  impute  to  them  many  odious 
faults,  especially  ferocity  and  ill-nature.  No  doubt, 
if  you  come  amongst  the  Morvandeaux,  or  amongst 
any  race  of  men  whatever,  with  the  preconceived  no- 
tion that  they  are  not  to  be  trusted,  and  then  treat 


316 


Second  Head  Quarters. 


them  in  such  manner  as  to  let  them  clearly  see  that 
you  despise  and  suspect  them,  —  no  doubt,  if  you  act 
so,  you  act  in  the  very  best  manner  to  bring  about 
such  usage  of  yourself  as  will  justify  your  strongest 
prejudice.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  treat  the 
people  with  kindness  and  confidence,  you  are  likely 
to  see  quite  a  different  aspect  of  their  character.  The 
Morvandeau  may  be,  if  you  use  him  ill,  all  that  his 
enemies  say  to  his  disadvantage  ;  but  I  have  always 
found  him  exceedingly  civil  and  disposed  to  render 
service.  I  may  mention  one  little  trait  of  character 
here,  which  seems  to  me  to  speak  in  the  people's 
favor.  If  they  have  a  vacant  seat  in  a  conveyance, 
and  pass  a  traveller  on  foot,  they  very  seldom  omit  to 
offer  it  to  him.  This  has  occurred  to  me  certainly 
scores  of  times,  and  I  believe  I  might  truly  say  hun- 
dreds of  times.  And  it  is  done  by  people  of  all  ranks, 
and  so  habitually  as  to  be  thought  quite  simple  and 
natural.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  country,  and  a  custom, 
in  my  opinion,  which  goes  far  to  disprove  any  general 
accusation  of  sullenness  against  its  inhabitants. 

Of  course,  the  poor  hill-peasant  is  considered  avari- 
cious, as  all  people  are,  who,  having  small  means, 
attempt  to  save  for  their  children  ;  but  this  is  really 
only  what,  when  practised  by  richer  people  in  exactly 
the  same  proportion  to  their  means,  we  are  accustomed 
to  praise  as  a  wise  foresight.  The  peasant  of  the 
Morvan  has  a  fixed  notion  about  his  duty  to  his  chil- 
dren which  is  exceedingly  onerous  to  him.  He  does 
not  say,  "  I  got  a  thousand  pounds  from  my  father, 
therefore  my  five  children  must  have  two  hundred 
pounds  apiece ; "  but  he  says,  "  I  got  a  thousand 
pounds  from  my  father,  therefore  my  five  children 


A  Farm  in  tJie  Autunois.  317 


must  have  a  thousand  pounds  apiece."  Imagine  the 
consequences  of  such  a  theory  in  the  excesses  of  fru- 
gality to  which  it  leads.  The  theory  cannot  always 
be  put  into  practice  to  its  full  extent,  but  it  is  the  ac- 
cepted idea  of  what  is  right,  and  an  attempt — often  a 
very  long  and  arduous  effort — is  made  to  realize  it. 
Again,  I  find  that  the  peasants  here  have  all  the  capi- 
talist's way  of  thinking,  rather  than  the  way  current 
amongst  those  classes  whose  earnings  are  large  and 
capital  small.  These  peasants  do  not  estimate  each 
other's  importance  by  the  way  they  live,  but  by  the 
amount  they  are  able  to  give  to  their  children  in  mar- 
riage. Imagine  consideration  wholly  detached  from 
current  expenditure,  and  fixed  exclusively  on  capital, 
and  think  what  an  effect  that  would  have  on  the 
society  of  great  cities  !  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
if  such  a  revolution  in  opinion  were  to  occur  in  Paris, 
half  the  expenditure  there  would  cease  at  once.  And 
the  peasant  of  the  Morvan  is  just  as  independent  of 
outlay  for  the  improvement  of  his  mind  as  he  is  of  out- 
lay for  the  sake  of  appearance.  His  idea  of  duty  to 
his  children  is  severe  and  onerous,  as  v/e  have  seen, 
but  it  does  not  include  the  most  elementary  conception 
of  any  necessity  for  educating  them.  He  does  not 
buy  newspapers  or  books,  and  of  course  he  never 
travels  to  amuse  himself.  His  recreation,  when  he  is 
young,  is  to  dance  at  marriage  feasts  and  on  minor 
occasions,  and,  when  old,  to  get  tipsy  now  and  then 
with  old  fellows  like  himself  when  they  meet  at  the 
market  town. 

It  would  be  easy  to  sketch  characters  from  the  life 
in  classes  superior  to  the  peasantry,  but  several  reasons 
forbid  it.    I  have  a  few  intimate  friends  in  the  neigh- 


318  Second  Head  Quarters. 


borhood,  but  scarcely  any  acquaintances ;  and  the 
idea  of  serving  up  one's  friends,  even  though  they  be 
Frenchmen,  in  order  that  their  little  peculiarities  may 
afford  amusement  to  the  public,  and  help  to  sell  one's 
book,  is  not  to  be  entertained  for  a  moment.  Besides, 
I  am  far  too  well  acquainted  with  the  French  people 
to  write  those  dashing  sketches  which  require,  for 
their  success,  the  raw  foreigner's  point  of  view,  his 
sense  of  novelty  in  everything,  and  his  rooted  belief 
that  everything  which  is  not  exactly  what  he  is  accus- 
tomed to  at  home  is  an  infringement,  either  ridiculous 
or  sinful,  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  universe.  To 
illustrate  this  by  a  real  example,  I  may  mention  a 
Frenchman  who  travelled  the  whole  length  of  Eng- 
land, and  returned  to  France  with  one  predominant 
idea  about  us,  which  idea  was  this  —  "What  huge 
pieces  of  cheese  are  served  on  English  tables  !  "  It 
had  happened  that  at  the  very  first  hotel  he  staid  at 
there  was  a  gigantic  wedge  of  Cheshire,  not  yet  much 
cut  into  ;  and  this  so  astonished  the  Frenchman,  whose 
first  thought  had  been,  "  I  can  never  eat  all  that ! " 
that  he  never  got  over  it,  and  to  this  day  tells  me  of  it 
every  time  I  see  him.  Now,  that  is  exactly  the  state 
of  mind  in  which  the  amusing  traveller  lives  and 
writes  ;  and  Englishmen  who  publish  books  about  the 
French  do  so  for  the  most  part  whilst  yet  in  that  early 
stage  of  amazement  at  trifles  of  no  consequence.  On 
the  one  hand  they  see  luxuries  they  are  not  accustomed 
to,  and  then  they  cry  out  how  extravagant  the  French 
are  ;  then  they  are  shocked  by  the  absence  of  other 
luxuries  which  habit  has  rendered  indispensable  to 
themselves,  and  they  exclaim  against  French  parsi- 
mony.   But  suppose  that  my  friend  of  the  big  cheese 


A  Farm  in  the  Autunois.  319 

had  lived  in  England  a  few  years,  —  is  it  not  probable 
that  he  would  have  become  accustomed  to  the  sight 
of  a  few  pounds  of  Cheshire,  and  in  time  even  indiffer- 
ent to  it,  whilst  gradually  ideas  about  us  might  have 
formed  themselves  in  his  mind  above  and  beyond  this 
first  conception  of  us  as  eaters  of  big  cheeses? 

The  French  are  exceedingly  fond  of  a  country  life 
in  fine  summer  weather,  but  they  prefer  to  winter  in 
towns  ;  and  every  land-owner  of  any  consequence  has 
a  town  house,  or  at  least  a  few  rooms  in  some  provin- 
cial centre,  where  he  meets  his  own  set.  What  al- 
ways surprises  me  in  these  arrangements  is  the  con- 
tentment with  which  the  inhabitants  of  some  spacious 
chateau  migrate  to  narrow  lodgings,  just  at  the  very 
time  of  the  year  when  people  stay  most  in  doors,  and 
consequently  when  space  is  most  valuable.  It  seems, 
however,  a  convenient  plan  to  make  the  nearest  town 
the  capital  of  its  own  district,  as  the  people  all  know 
each  other,  and  the  annual  removals  cause  little  ex- 
pense or  trouble.  There  is  not  a  single  country  gen- 
tleman in  this  neighborhood  who  has  not  a  town  house 
either  in  Autun,  or  Chalon,  or  Dijon,  sometimes  very 
dismal  ones  in  comparison  with  their  pleasant  sum- 
mer residences.  I  know  an  old  bachelor  who,  being 
uncommonly  good-natured,  makes  his  annual  migra- 
tion to  Autun  for  no  other  reason  than  because,  if  he 
gave  it  up,  his  servants,  who  enjoy  the  sociability  of 
the  little  city,  wTould  be  too  much  disappointed.  Mar- 
ried men  often  go  to  please  their  wives  ;  and  I  know 
an  instance  where  the  lady,  who  likes  the  country  all 
the  year  round,  goes  to  the  town  to  please  her  hus- 
band. It  may  generally  be  observed  that  whoever  in 
a  household  has  the  common  custom  on  his  side,  will 


320  Second  Head  ^htarters. 


easily  carry  his  point,  even  against  the  tastes  of  a 
majority. 

A  practical  objection  to  this  system  is,  that  the  coun- 
try houses,  not  being  inhabited  at  the  season  of  the 
year  when  they  most  want  it,  are  liable  to  deteriora- 
tion by  damp.  Anywhere  north  of  Lyons  the  French 
winter  is  just  as  bad  as  the  English,  and  as  the  French 
are  not  in  the  habit  of  keeping  good  fires  in  rooms 
they  do  not  actually  use,  they  often  find  their  country 
houses  unpleasantly  damp  when  they  come  back  to 
them  in  April.  The  woodwork  decays,  the  papers 
fall  off,  the  bedding  is  unfit  for  immediate  use,  and 
you  hear  of  bad  colds  and  attacks  of  rheumatism. 
Where  there  are  libraries  and  collections  of  prints,  the 
owners,  of  course,  learn  that  constant  fires  are  indis- 
pensable ;  but  small  proprietors  keep  their  few  books 
in  their  town  dwelling,  which  is  in  every  way  the 
more  luxurious  of  the  two  ;  and  the  maison  de  cani- 
£agne  is  so  simple  that  it  would  be  dreary  and 
wretched  without  the  glory  of  sunshine,  which  is 
indeed  so  great  and  splendid  a  luxury  that  it  supplies 
the  want  of  all  others. 

Perhaps  a  brief  description  of  three  chateaux,  of 
very  different  degrees  of  pretension,  may  not  be  with- 
out interest.  The  most  splendid  of  the  three,  Sully, 
is  the  principal  seat  of  the  MacMahons.  An  Irish 
surgeon,  towards  the  end  of  the  last  century,  settled  in 
this  part  of  the  world  with  a  view  to  professional 
occupation,  and  married  a  very  great  heiress  of  noble 
family,  to  whom  Sully  and  other  estates  belonged. 
From  this  marriage  descends  the  present  famous 
Field-Marshal  the  Duke  of  Magenta.  The  chateau  is 
a  magnificent  quadrangle  with  corner  towers  outside, 


A  Farm  in  the  Autunois. 


321 


the  court  of  quite  palatial  architecture,  as  good  as  the 
best  bits  of  the  Tuileries.  There  are  some  noble 
rooms,  one  great  hall  especially,  with  stately  chimney- 
pieces  and  baronial  furniture.  One  or  two  of  the  old 
bedrooms,  with  tapestry  and  quaint  beds,  are  very 
tempting  subjects  for  an  artist.  Some  modern  "  im- 
provements "  have  much  injured  the  building  as  seen 
from  the  outside,  though  happily  the  noble  court  is 
quite  well  preserved.  It  is  especially  regretable  that 
the  new  chapel  should  be  of  bad  Gothic,  entirely  out 
of  harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  building,  which  is 
Renaissance. 

Another  very  good  specimen  of  the  true  French 
chateau,  though  not  nearly  so  magnificent  as  Sully,  is 
Monjeu.  It  is  situated  on  the  crown  of  the  hills  above 
Au tun,  and  buried  in  great  woods  of  fine  timber,  with 
an  opening  in  front  through  which  the  eye  ranges, 
first  over  a  great  garden,  by  Lenotre,  between  ter- 
raced avenues,  and  then  from  crest  to  crest  of  far- 
waving  hills  to  a  remote  horizon.  The  place  is  all 
but  abandoned  by  its  owner,  and  the  stiff  courtly  gar- 
den, so  perfect  a  background  for  scenes  of  high  life  in 
the  time  of  Louis  Qiiinze,  has  gained  from  neglect  a 
melancholy  in  the  highest  degree  poetical.  Vast  were 
the  labors  that  filled  the  ravine  with  earth,  and  held  it 
there  with  a  gigantic  wall  of  masonry  fit  for  a  modern 
fortress ;  and  delicate  the  art  and  care  with  which  the 
costly  level  had  been  laid  out  with  walks  and  beds, 
with  fountain  and  with  lawn.  Broad  flights  of  stairs, 
whose  stones  were  separated  by  slow  forces  of  vegeta- 
tion, mighty  as  levers  of  iron  ;  statues  lichen-spotted, 
ivy-garlanded ;  vase  and  baluster  tottering  together 
over  the  silent  terraces ;  —  all  these  have  expression, 
21 


322 


Second  Head  ®hcarters. 


and  expression  of  the  kind  to  which  every  true  artist 
is  most  sensitive.  And  in  the  chateau  itself  are  a 
score  of  high  tapestried  chambers  all  deserted,  and  a 
great  hall  with  carved  and  painted  wainscoting  fading 
in  the  suns  of  summer  after  summer. 

In  a  very  retired  situation  amongst  the  hills  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley  stands  a  little  chateau  of  the 
most  humble  pretensions.  As  it  is  to  let,  and  I  once 
had  some  notion  of  becoming  its  inhabitant,  I  took 
care  to  visit  every  nook  and  corner  in  the  place.  It 
has  the  essentials  of  a  real  chateau  —  round  corner 
towers,  a  chapel,  and  a  spacious  garden ;  but  the 
roughness  of  it  is  such  that  it  would  take  ten  years' 
rent  to  make  it  comfortable.  There  is,  however, 
something  very  delightful  in  the  quaint  arrangement 
of  these  houses ;  the  numerous  round  towers  give 
many  little  cell-like  closets  —  tiny  rooms,  often  of  great 
use  to  an  inhabitant  with  various  occupations  ;  and  it 
seems  as  if  one  would  get  strongly  attached  to  a  house 
with  so  marked  a  character  of  its  own  ;  whereas  the 
usual  London  house,  or  middle-class  country  villa,  has 
scarcely  more  individuality  than  a  cab  or  an  omnibus. 
Of  all  the  faults  of  a  house,  the  most  hateful  is  that 
total  want  of  interest  which  results  from  uninventive- 
ness  in  the  planning  of  it.  When  you  pass  a  manu- 
facturer's box  with  five  windows  in  the  front  and  a 
door  in  the  middle,  you  know  the  distribution  of  the 
interior  as  well  as  if  the  outer  walls  were  of  plate- 
glass.  The  habitation  which  the  mind  itself  may 
dwell  in  with  contentment  must  have  some  variety  to 
interest  and  amuse  the  mind.  This  variety  the  quaint 
little  chateau  possessed,  and  therefore,  rough  as  it  is, 
I  would  more  willingly  live  in  it  than  in  many  a 
better-built  and  more  convenient  mansion. 


A  JFarm  in  the  Antunois. 


323 


Close  to  this  chateau  is  a  hill  which  is  the  scene  of 
fairy  legends.  People  lived  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
lamented  the  hardness  of  their  lot  in  having  to  fetch 
water  from  the  little  river  in  the  valley.  So  two 
fairies  came  to  their  aid,  and  carried  the  water  up  the 
hill-side.  But  before  they  had  reached  the  top,  one  of 
them  said  to  the  other,  "  With  the  help  of  God,  we 
shall  get  there  at  last ; "  and  the  other  impiously 
answered,  "  With  or  without  the  help  of  God  !  "  on 
which  the  water  immediately  spilled  itself,  and  now 
flows  from  that  very  spot  in  a  perpetual  spring. 

When  the  fairies  died  out  of  the  land,  one  of  them 
was  transformed  into  a  serpent,  and  set  to  guard  an 
immense  treasure  in  a  cave  in  the  hill.  Before  the 
mouth  of  this  cave  was  rolled  a  great  stone  ;  but  on 
Sundays,  during  divine  service,  the  stone  rolled  back, 
and  left  the  cave  open.  Now,  a  village  woman  who 
had  heard  of  the  treasure  went  to  the  cave  the  day  of 
the  Fete  Dieu.  And,  behold,  the  cave  was  open, 
and  its  floor  was  all  covered  with  scattered  gold  and 
gems.  And  the  woman  took  her  little  child  with  her 
into  the  cave,  and  set  it  on  a  table  in  the  middle,  and 
gave  it  an  apple  to  amuse  it  whilst  she  gathered  the 
fairy  treasure.  And  she  filled  her  pockets,  and  her 
apron,  and  the  folds  of  her  skirts  with  gold.  Then, 
suddenly  remembering  that  the  service  would  shortly 
end,  she  rushed  out  of  the  cave  with  her  booty.  A 
minute  afterwards  she  thought  about  the  child,  and 
looked  back,  but,  lo,  the  cave  was  shut,  and  the  child 
shut  up  in  it.  Then  she  flung  the  gold  and  the  gems 
away,  scattering  them  like  rain  in  the  mountain  grass, 
and  she  ran  down  to  the  village  and  told  all  to  the 
priest.    The  priest  came,  and  all  the  villagers  with 


324 


Second  Head  §htarte7's. 


him,  to  the  spot  where  the  woman  had  scattered  the 
treasure  ;  and  they  picked  it  all  up,  every  piece  of  gold 
and  every  precious  jewel.  Then  the  priest  kept  the 
treasure  carefully  for  one  year,  and  on  the  next  Fete 
Dieu  he  sent  the  woman  with  it  to  the  fairy's  cave. 
And  she  found  the  cave  open  as  before,  and  saw  her 
little  child  still  sitting  on  the  table,  still  playing  with 
the  apple  she  had  given  him ;  but  the  serpent  lay 
coiled  round  the  foot  of  the  table.  Then  the  woman 
restored  all  that  she  had  taken,  and  took  away  her 
child,  and  returned  to  the  village  glad  at  heart. 

The  Morvan  is  a  region  where  superstitions  have  a 
surprising  vitality.  Miracles  are  of  quite  frequent 
occurrence,  and  testified  by  a  thousand  witnesses. 
The  incumbent  of  a  village  called  Ars,  a  man  of 
saintly  character  and  great  benevolence,  proved  his 
divine  mission  by  repeating  in  the  present  generation 
many  of  the  miracles  of  Jesus.  It  is  only  a  few  years 
since  he  died,  yet  the  popular  faith  has  magnified  him 
into  a  mythic  personage.  Critics  who  feel  any  em- 
barrassment about  the  origin  of  legends  should  live  a 
year  or  two  in  a  country  like  this,  learn  its  patois, 
and  make  acquaintances  amongst  the  devout  peasantry. 
They  would  see  legends  grow  vigorously  from  little 
seeds,  and  would  familiarize  themselves  with  a  very 
curious  and  interesting  fact  in  human  nature,  which  it 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  take  into  account  if  we  would 
rightly  understand  the  past. 

When  any  one  is  ill,  they  take  his  shirt  and  dip  it 
in  St.  Michael's  spring  ;  if  that  fails,  and  the  patient 
can  bear  travel,  he  may  go  on  pilgrimage  to  a  saint's 
shrine  on  the  mountain.  Every  year  a  great  crowd 
passes  the  whole  night  there,  and  beholds  a  miracle. 


A  Farm  in  the  Autunois*  325 

This  saint  is  quite  modern,  of  the  present  century, 
and  consequently  not  yet  even  canonized.  She  was 
married  to  a  soldier  of  Napoleon,  who,  the  very  day 
of  the  wedding,  was  called  away  to  the  wars.  For 
seven  years  she  waited  (in  legends,  absences  are 
always  of  seven  years),  when  another  lover  persuaded 
her  to  marry  him.  But  the  day  of  the  second  mar- 
riage the  first  husband  returned.  Both  claimed  her ; 
so  she  announced  her  resolution  to  live  with  neither, 
but  devote  herself  to  religious  meditation.  With  this 
view  she  ascended  the  hills  behind  Autun,  and,  being 
very  weary,  needed  refreshment,  when,  lo  !  a  spring 
gushed  for  her  from  the  dry  rock.  She  fixed  her  her- 
mitage near  the  spot,  and,  after  living  a  holy  life,  died 
there.  The  spring  became  a  resort  of  pilgrims  from 
villages  far  and  near.  They  came  with  bottles,  and 
filled  them  with  the  miraculous  water,  and  carried  it 
home  to  sick  friends,  who  found  health  in  the  blessed 
draught.  Then  the  priests,  who  in  Catholic  countries 
willingly  consecrate  all  popular  superstitions  not  abso- 
lutely incompatible  with  Christian  dogma,  saw  vitality 
enough  in  this  to  induce  them  to  take  it  under  their 
patronage.  So  they  built  a  chapel  by  the  well,  and 
placed  an  image  of  the  saint  therein  ;  and  now  the 
image,  which  is  usually  highly  colored,  grows  pale 
and  perspires  hot  sweat  on  the  saint's  night ;  and  then 
the  gift  of  miracle  belongs  to  it,  and  they  who  touch 
it  are  made  whole. 

There' is  a  wild  legend  about  a  carriage,  with  four 
galloping  phantom  horses,  coal  black,  and  a  phantom 
lady  in  it,  dressed  in  bridal  white,  and  pale  as  a  corpse, 
seated  by  the  side  of  a  grim  ghost-husband.  This  ap- 
parition is  seen  at  a  place  where  four  roads  meet,  and 


326 


Second  Head  Quarters. 


is  attributed  to  the  fact  that  this  gentleman,  when  in 
life  and  driving  out  with  his  bride,  at  that  spot  blas- 
phemously invoked  the  Evil  One. 

Passing  from  fiction  to  fact,  here  is  a  curious  little 
story.  Twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  (my  informant  did 
not  remember  the  precise  date),  there  came  to  Autun 
a  holy  bishop  from  the  far  east.  He  had  been  cruelly 
tortured  in  some  perilous  mission  among  the  heathen, 
and  his  face  bore  fearful  evidence  of  the  sufferings  he 
had  endured.  His  credentials  were  pronounced  per- 
fectly satisfactory,  and  the  then  bishop  of  Autun,  with 
his  clergy,  lent  him  support  and  assistance  towards  the 
object  of  his  visit  to  France,  which  was  the  collecting 
of  money  in  aid  of  the  mission  of  which  he  was  the 
chief.  The  interest  excited  by  the  disfigured  visage 
of  the  good  prelate  helped  him  powerfully  with  the 
female  inhabitants,  who  contributed  liberally.  When- 
ever he  walked  the  streets  a  crowd  attended  him.  At 
length  he  took  leave  of  the  faithful  city,  and  proceeded 
on  his  way.  As  he  passed  through  the  picturesque 
village  of  Couches,  a  laboring  man  endeavored  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  scarred  and  wounded  face  of 
which  everybody  talked,  and  which  had  so  deeply 
moved  the  whole  population.  The  laborer  wTas  a 
convict  on  leave,  and  he  recognized  in  the  bishop  a 
brother  convict,  who  had  escaped  from  prison  a  little 
time  before,  and  was  now  turning  his  wounds  to 
good  account  in  the  edification  of  the  devout,  and  his 
own  private  enrichment.  This  discovery,  which  the 
bishop's  old  friend  did  not  feel  bound  to  keep  secret, 
brought  the  episcopal  mission  to  a  sudden  termina- 
tion. 

This  reminds  me  of  an  event  which  occurred  at 


A  Farm  in  the  Autunois.  327 


vSens  during  my  own  residence  there.  Two  sisters  of 
charity  made  the  tour  of  the  town  to  collect  money,  in 
order  to  bring  up  poor  Catholic  children  in  the  bosom 
of  heretical  England.  Amongst  other  houses  they 
visited  mine,  and  Mrs.  Hamerton,  in  my  absence,  re- 
ceived them,  and  had  the  benefit  of  listening  to  a  full 
explanation  of  their  plans.  The  taller  of  the  two  sis- 
ters was  a  stranger,  travelling  for  the  above-mentioned 
laudable  purpose  ;  the  other  was  merely  a  sister  then 
resident  at  Sens,  who  accompanied  and  presented  the 
stranger.  Now,  this  tall  sister  was  a  man,  and  he 
might  have  left  the  town  undetected  in  his  disguise, 
had  not  an  unfeminine  gesture,  at  a  moment  when  he 
believed  himself  alone,  betrayed  him.  He  must  have 
acted  his  part,  on  the  whole,  very  cleverly ;  and  it 
needed  immense  audacity,  for  he  ate  at  the  same  table 
with  the  genuine  sisters,  and  slept,  it  is  said,  in  the 
same  dormitory.  The  discovery  and  apprehension  of 
this  swindler  created  some  sensation  in  the  little  town, 
and  every  one,  after  the  event,  remembered  some 
masculine  peculiarity.  As  I  have  said,  I  was  out  at 
the  time  he  came  to  my  house,  and  so  missed  him. 
Mrs.  Hamerton  observed  nothing  unusual  except  the 
extreme  smallness  and  beauty  of  his  hands,  which 
were  very  white  and  well  kept,  and  which  he  held 
before  him  with  a  certain  ostentation.  As  the  beauty 
of  the  hands  struck  Mrs.  Hamerton,  even  when  she 
supposed  their  owner  to  be  a  woman,  it  is  not  un- 
likely that  the  possession  of  them  may  have  suggested 
the  disguise. 

One  day,  a  young  peasant,  whom  I  knew  very  well, 
came  to  me  with  a  look  of  evident  embarrassment,  — 
a  particularly  sheepish  look,  as  we  say  in  England. 


328 


Second  Head  Quarters. 


It  came  out  that  he  was  going  to  be  married ;  and, 
finally,  that  he  had  a  great  desire  that  I  should  officiate 
as  a  witness.  I  have  a  distaste  for  ceremonies  in  gen- 
eral, and  have  managed  on  the  whole  to  keep  well  out 
of  them  ;  but  this  time  no  excuse  would  serve  me, 
since  any  pretext  would  be  set  down  to  pride,  and  my 
peasant  friend  would  feel  hurt.  So,  one  cold  winter's 
morning,  I  got  up  long  before  light,  and  set  off  to  the 
bride's  house,  in  a  distant  village.  Peasants  have  no 
notion  about  time  in  anything,  and  their  arrangements 
are  usually  such  as  to  leave  here  and  there  an  hiatus 
of  an  hour  or  two.  There  was  not  the  least  necessity 
for  making  me  undertake  a  chilly  journey  before  the 
dawn ;  for,  on  our  arrival,  we  waited  three  hours  in  a 
state  of  total  inaction,  during  which  I  had  nothing 
better  to  do  than  watch  the  opening  and  shutting  of 
the  gigantic,  cavernous  brick  oven,  as  the  countless 
dishes  were  introduced,  examined  whilst  in  progress, 
or  withdrawn.  So  far  as  I  could  guess  its  dimensions, 
the  oven  seemed  to  be  three  yards  deep,  or  rather 
more,  a  yard  and  a  half  wide,  and  a  yard  high.  To 
heat  an  oven  of  this  kind,  wood  is  burned  in  it,  not 
under  it,  till  the  bricks  all  round  are  thoroughly 
heated  ;  they  retain  their  heat  long  after  the  fire  is  re- 
moved, and  cook  a  prodigious  quantity  of  meat. 

Gradually  the  company  arrived,  all  of  them  farmers 
and  their  families,  the  older  generation  in  clean  blue 
blouses,  their  sons,  for  the  most  part,  in  broadcloth. 
The  feminine  costumes  were  generally  very  hand- 
some and  good,  and  I  have  no  doubt  costly,  but  do 
not  pretend  to  be  a  judge  in  such  matters.  Peasant 
women  in  this  part  of  France  live  lives  of  extreme 
simplicity,  and  even  roughness ;  but  on  great  occa- 


A  Farm  in  the  Autunois. 


329 


sions  they  dress  expensively,  without  abandoning 
the  costume  of  their  class.  A  little  anecdote  will 
prove  to  what  an  extent  this  goes.  Mrs.  Hamerton 
happened  to  be  in  a  shop  in  Autun,  one  day  last  win- 
ter, when  a  peasant  and  his  daughter  came  to  buy  a 
shawl  for  her  wedding.  The  old  man  was  very 
poorly  dressed,  and  the  girl  seemed  as  if  she  had 
never  been  in  a  shop  in  her  life  before.  So  the  shop- 
man offered  a  shawl  of  moderate  value,  about  ten 
pounds.  The  father  rather  admired  this  till  he  heard 
the  price,  when  he  utterly  scorned  it ;  and  the  same 
process  was  repeated  till  a  sixty  pound  shawl  was 
produced,  on  which  the  father  declared  himself  sat- 
isfied, as  the  price  seemed  sufficiently  high.  A  gold 
chain  is  also  necessary,  and  peasant  girls  choose  the 
best  they  can  get. 

At  length, tl>£  procession  was  formed.  First  marched 
the  father  of  the  bride,  with  the  bride  on  his  arm  ; 
then  the  bridegroom  and  myself,  arm  in  arm  ;  then  a 
great  number  of  couples,  duly  marshalled.  Before  us 
marched  a  fiddler.  We  had  not  gone  ten  yards  before 
we  had  to  stop  and  give  money  to  a  man  by  the  way- 
side, with  a  thing  like  a  chandelier  of  many  branches, 
all  covered  with  flaunting  scraps  of  colored  paper, 
and  studded  with  paper  flowers.  These  things  oc- 
curred at  every  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  and  every  time 
I  noticed  that  the  bride's  father  gave  two  francs.  We 
all  had  to  give  according  to  our  means,  and  the  paper 
chandeliers,  so  dearly  purchased,  were  all  carried  in 
the  procession,  which  thus  assumed  an  appearance  of 
ever-increasing  gayety.  Many  guns  were  fired,  and 
we  reached  the  mairie  under  an  almost  royal  yet  irreg- 
ular salute.    The  maire's  deputy  did  all  the  work,  the 


33° 


Second  Head  Quarters, 


functionary  himself  being  perfectly  at  sea,  or  wool- 
gathering, or  whatever  else  may  best  express  that 
condition  of  the  mind  in  which  it  is  totally  unfit  for 
the  work  lying  immediately  before  it.  At  last  he  tied 
the  official  scarf  round  his  waist,  and  somehow  got 
through  the  little  bit  of  business  that  the  adjoint  could 
not  possibly  do  for  him.  Having  signed  the  papers  as 
witness,  I  had  to  give  the  bridegroom  to  his  bride, 
and  made  her  a  small  speech  on  the  occasion,  of  a 
very  simple  character,  but  which,  as  it  turned  out, 
gave  great  pleasure  to  the  parents,  who  spoke  of  it 
often  afterwards.  The  procession,  being  now  re- 
formed, continued  its  march  to  the  church  —  a  de- 
lightfully picturesque  church,  very  venerable,  and 
wholly  guiltless  of  restoration.  The  wedding  party 
almost  filled  the  seats ;  but  some  disorder  was  occa- 
sioned at  first  by  a  peremptory  command  from  the 
priest  that  all  the  paper  chandeliers,  which  had  cost 
so  much  money,  should  be  carried  outside,  or  else  he 
would  not  begin  the  service.  They  distracted  atten- 
tion, he  thought. 

The  priest  went  through  the  usual  Catholic  mar- 
riage service,  and  I  felt  rather  nervous  from  the  idea 
that  a  part  of  my  duty  would  be  to  hold  a  piece  of 
embroidered  silk  over  the  heads  of  the  kneeling 
couple  ;  but  it  seems  that  previous  young  men  in  my 
situation  had  misbehaved  when  doing  this ;  so  the 
priest  had  resolved  to  confide  the  trust  henceforth 
always  to  the  devouter  sex.  The  bride's  sister  held 
my  end  with  the  utmost  self-possession,  as  if  quite 
accustomed  to  it,  and  the  bride  herself  was  happy 
under  the  shadow  of  it ;  for  we  were  late  at  church, 
and  there  had  been  a  threat  that  this  ceremony  should 


A  Farm  in  tJie  Autunois. 


33i 


be  omitted,  which  threat  had  cost  her  great  anxiety 
and  many  tears.  A  marriage  is  always  a  solemn 
affair,  and  a  church  is  not  the  right  place  to  laugh  in  ; 
but  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  active  wherever  any- 
thing occurs  to  stimulate  it,  and  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing rather  tickled  by  the  clerk  in  blouse  and  sabots, 
clumsily  going  through  the  prescribed  ceremonial,  and 
producing,  by  the  side  of  the  splendid  vestments  of 
the  priest,  an  effect  as  incongruous  as  a  Somersetshire 
laborer  in  working  dress,  if  he  could  be  presented  at 
court.  After  the  ceremony  the  priest  turned  his  back 
to  the  altar,  and  made  a  long  address  on  the  subject  of 
marriage.  He  did  not  put  the  matter  in  any  new 
light,  but  his  manner  and  style  were  very  carefully 
suited  to  the  understanding  of  his  audience  ;  and  as 
he  had  known  the  parish  long,  and  been  acquainted 
with  the  bridegroom's  family  for  generations,  he  took 
the  opportunity  of  recalling  at  great  length  the  virtues 
of  his  deceased  grandfather,  with  an  exhortation  to 
imitate  them.  All  this  is  no  doubt  strictly  within  the 
province  of  the  priest,  and  yet  there  seems  to  be 
something  inconsistent  in  the  idea  that  a  gentleman 
who,  by  the  necessity  of  his  position,  is  an  old  bache- 
lor, should  be  called  upon,  also  by  the  same  necessity 
of  position,  to  talk  about  a  state  of  life  of  which  he 
had  had  no  experience.  No  talking  about  marriage  is 
of  much  value,  however,  for  every  marriage  is  an  en- 
tirely new  experiment ;  and  when  an  old  married  man 
advises  a  young  one  about  his  dealings  with  his  wife, 
the  counsel  in  very  many  cases  is  not  less  inapplicable 
than  the  empty  generalities  of  an  old  bachelor. 

We  all  adjourned  to  the  priest's  house  for  the  signa- 
ture of  his  marriage  registers.  '  It  was  comfortable 


332 


Second  Head  Quarters. 


enough  ;  but  most  houses  of  the  middle  class  in  Bur- 
gundy have  a  repellent  aspect,  on  account  of  the  gen- 
eral notion  that  paper  and  paint  need  not  be  renewed 
more  than  once  in  forty  years.  The  people  are  not  a 
dirty  people  ;  the  quantities  of  linen  they  possess  are 
quite  fabulous  ;  they  are  cleanly  in  their  cookery  ;  they 
take  frequent  warm  baths  in  winter  and  river  baths  in 
summer ;  they  rub  and  polish  their  oaken  floors,  and 
apply  as  much  friction  to  their  furniture  as  if  they 
hoped  to  cure  it  of  some  rheumatic  complaint ;  but 
an  Englishman  entering  their  houses  is  immediate- 
ly struck  by  an  overpowering  impression  of  ancient 
dirt  and  long  neglect,  which  impression,  if  he  tries 
to  account  for  it,  will  be  found  to  be  wholly  due  to 
the  want  of  paper,  paint,  and  whitewash.  Perhaps 
this  may  result  from  a  feeling  of  despair.  The  flies 
are  very  numerous  here,  and  after  two  summers  a 
room  looks  dirty.  To  look  like  a  well-kept  house  in 
a  northern  climate,  a  Burgundian  habitation  would 
have  to  be  painted  and  papered  every  spring,  or  else 
decorated  with  something  that  would  bear  frequent 
washing. 

Signing  anything  is  always  a  nervous  business  for 
the  unlettered,  and  not  every  one  present  had  the 
courage  or  the  power  to  attempt  it.  The  bride  pro- 
fessed herself  entirely  ignorant  of  the  art  of  writing,  on 
which  her  father  informed  us  all,  that  in  her  youth  he 
had  provided  instruction  for  her,  but  that  she  had 
never  been  willing  to  learn.  Ornaments  of  the  body 
she  possessed,  chains  of  gold,  shawl  of  many  colors, 
robe  of  stiff  and  glistening  silk,  head-dress  of  delicate 
lace  ;  but  the  ornaments  of  the  mind,  nay,  even  its 
most  plain  and  ordinary  furniture,  had  been  absolutely 


A  Farm  in  the  Autunois.  333 


omitted.  How  much  more  learned  was  her  venerable 
parent,  who,  when  asked  to  sign,  came  forward  with 
a  confident  air,  and  wrote  his  name  quite  steadily, 
with  some  attempt  at  a  flourish !  The  spectators 
were  evidently  impressed  by  this  contrast,  by  the  de- 
cline in  scholarship  apparent  in  the  family,  when, 
unfortunately,  the  priest  said,  "  Very  well ;  now  you 
must  put  a  ft)  for  ftere"  The  father  was  now  obliged 
to  confess  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  make  a^;  on 
which  everybody  laughed  outright,  to  his  confusion. 
He  was  a  member  of  that  numerous  class  between 
writers  and  non-writers  who  have  acquired,  by  diligent 
practice,  the  art  of  signing  their  own  names,  but  do  not 
consider  it  necessary  to  push  their  education  farther. 

From  the  priest's  house  the  procession  went  to  the 
village  inn,  the  fiddler  fiddling  very  diligently  in  front. 
Here  we  found  tables  spread  with  clean  cloths,  but 
nothing  on  them  except  a  number  of  white  soup 
tureens  full  of  Burgundy  wine,  and  plates  piled  high 
with  little  sweet  biscuits.  The  wine  was  liberally 
sugared,  —  peasants  on  great  occasions  always  sugar 
their  wine.  After  drinking  a  few  goblets  of  this,  we 
formed  the  procession  once  more,  and  marched  through 
the  village  to  the  sound  of  the  fiddle,  interrupted  by 
frequent  discharges  of  fowling-pieces.  On  our  return 
to  the  house  of  the  bride's  father  a  singular  custom 
was  observed.  An  air  of  total  stillness  and  aban- 
donment reigned  over  the  whole  place.  There  was 
nobody  to  welcome  us,  nobody  to  say  a  kind  word  to 
the  new  bride.  The  door  was  shut  and  bolted,  and 
not  even  a  cat  looked  at  us  from  the  window.  The 
leaders  of  the  procession  knocked  at  the  door,  —  no 
one  answered ;  again  and  again  they  knocked,  the 


334  Second  Head  Quarters. 


whole  procession  standing  in  patient  expectation.  As 
there  was  no  answer  from  the  inside,  the  fiddler  was 
placed  before  the  door,  and  he  fiddled  for  admittance, 
—  still  no  answer.  Then  the  uncle  of  the  bridegroom 
took  the  fiddle  and  performed.  At  length  a  grumbling 
voice  was  heard. 
"Who  are  ye?" 

"We  are  your  daughter  and  her  husband  and  their 
friends." 

"  I  know  ye  not." 
"  Open  unto  us." 

"  I  will  not  open  ;  I  know  ye  not." 
The  bride  —  "  I  am  thy  daughter." 
A  long  pause. 

The  door  opens ;  suddenly  a  violent  hail-storm  of 
wheat  flies  in  the  faces  of  all  near  it.  It  is  called  the 
sowing,  and  it  means,  "  Be  fruitful." 

Then  a  huge  loaf  is  held  out  in  the  doorway,  and 
the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  must  bite  of  it,  without 
cutting  it.  This  accomplished,  (it  means,  u  May  you 
have  plenty !  ")  the  pair  stand  in  the  doorway,  and  all 
the  procession  kiss  both  of  them,  offering  congratula- 
tions. 

Dancing  now  began,  and  as  everybody  present,  ex- 
cept myself,  was  very  skilful  and  active  in  that  exercise, 
it  went  on  very  vigorously.  A  quadrille,  as  danced  by 
the  peasantry,  does  not  resemble  the  cold  performance 
which  bears  the  same  name  in  polite  society.  They 
add  many  graces  and  flourishes,  often  quite  indescriba- 
ble. They  bend  and  lean  on  air  ;  they  dance  as  much 
with  their  arms  as  with  their  legs  ;  they  leap  and  bound 
like  lambs  or  kids  ;  they  are  very  amiable  to  their  part- 
ners, and  keep  their  arms  round  their  waists  quite 


A  Farm  in  the Autunois. 


335 


affectionately  for  hours  together ;  and  what  is  more, 
from  the  air  of  happiness  visible  on  the  faces  of  the 
girls,  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt  that  they  like  it. 

Before  our  departure  for  the  mairie,  we  had  most 
of  us  taken  a  little  light  refreshment,  consisting  of  four 
or  five  dishes  of  meat  and  a  few  tumblers  of  wine  ; 
but  in  spite  of  that  and  the  subsequent  draughts  and 
sweet  biscuits  at  the  inn,  we  had  not  danced  above  two 
hours  before  we  began  to  think  about  dinner.  How 
shall  I  describe  the  magnitude  of  that  feast  ? 

The  daily  life  of  the  peasant  is  one  of  the  very  strict- 
est sobriety.  He  very  seldom  tastes  meat,  and  only 
occasionally  drinks  wine ;  sugar  is  a  rarity  almost 
unknown.  A  festival,  to  him,  is  the  saturnalia  of 
long-repressed  desires.  A  rich  gentleman  does  not  eat 
much  more  at  a  banquet  than  at  his  ordinary  dinner ; 
animal  food  is  not  in  itself  an  exciting  delight ;  sugar 
has  no  charms  for  him  ;  but  put  the  rich  gentleman  on 
the  peasant's  diet  for  twelve  months,  and  then  give 
him  for  one  day  the  full  range  of  all  his  appetites,  and 
he  would  understand  the  rare  excesses  of  the  peasantry. 
I  regret  not  to  have  made  a  list  of  the  dishes  of  meat 
presented  to  me  at  table  ;  but  I  counted  eighteen,  and 
missed  several.  No  kind  of  flesh  known  to  be  in  season 
was  omitted,  and  the  cooks  of  the  village  had  exhausted 
all  their  science.  The  dinner  was  really  excellent  in 
its  way,  but  I  longed  for  something  else  than  perpetual 
meat.  Vegetables  there  were  none.  There  was^  some 
dessert,  however,  because  our  host  was  of  rather  a 
superior  class  ;  but  the  ordinary  peasant's  great  feast 
consists  of  nothing  but  between  twenty  and  thirty  dif- 
ferent dishes  of  meat  succeeding  each  other,  during 
long  hours  of  laborious  mastication. 


33^ 


Second  Head  Quarters. 


I  should  have  been  glad  to  give  some  idea  of  the 
conversation  and  characters  at  table,  for  both  were 
amusing  in  their  way ;  but  I  despair  of  doing  them 
any  justice  in  any  language  except  their  own  patois, 
which  I  do  not  write  for  two  reasons ;  first,  though  I 
understand  it  when  spoken,  I  can  neither  speak  nor 
spell  it ;  secondly,  if  I  could,  no  English  reader  would 
appreciate  it.  In  a  general  way,  I  may  say,  however, 
that  my  peasant  friends  were  very  shrewd  and  humor- 
ous, but  always  perfectly  polite. 

As  I  was  a  good  way  from  home  I  left  very  early, 
but  the  wedding  guests  danced  late  out  of  doors  by  the 
light  of  the  moon.  The  next  day  there  was  a  great 
flesh  feast  at  the  house  of  the  bridegroom,  and  many 
minor  repasts  at  intervals.  The  bridegroom's  younger 
brother  calculated  that  in  the  two  days  he  had  eaten 
fifteen  meals  and  danced  fifteen  hours. 


337 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  RIVER  VOYAGE  IN  A  BASKET. 

I HAVE  said  that  the  boundary  of  my  garden  is  a 
stream.  Beyond  this  is  a  broad  meadow,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  the  meadow  a  larger  stream,  called  the 
Ternin,  from  which  mine  has  been  artificially  detached. 
The  Ternin  is  a  great  happiness  to  me,  because  full  of 
picturesque  subjects  along  its  whole  course,  and  also 
because  there  are  some  deep  pools  where  I  take  a  daily 
swim  in  summer.  These  two  pleasures,  swimming 
and  the  study  of  nature,  were  both  very  great ;  but  the 
question  suggested  itself  whether  it  would  not  be  also 
possible  to  make  the  little  river  yield  a  third  delight. 
How  if  I  could  navigate  it?  Of  course  all  my  neigh- 
bors said  that  was  totally  impossible  ;  that  there  were 
shallows,  and  snags,  and  turns,  and  tree  trunks,  and 
branches,  and  all  manner  of  obstacles.  My  boat 
would  be  caught  and  ingulfed  in  whirlpools ;  my 
head  would  be  smashed  against  tree  boughs  ;  my  feet, 
after  I  was  upset,  would  be  caught  in  roots  and  weeds  ; 
and  I  should  be  both  killed  and  drowned,  as  the  Irish- 
man said. 

The  Ternin  runs  about  four  miles  from  my  house  to 
Autun,  where  it  discharges  itself  into  the  Arroux. 
The  Arroux  descends  in  its  turn  to  the  Loire,  which 
it  meets  at  Digoin.  The  idea  of  connecting  myself 
with  the  great  system  of  river  navigation,  of  having 

22 


338  ^4  River  Voyage  in  a  Basket. 


access  by  water  to  the  Loire,  the  Rhone,  the  Seine, 
was  something  inspiriting  and  magnificent. 

I  have  a  good  boat,  but,  after  trying  her  on  the 
Ternin,  found  that  she  was  too  long  for  such  intricate 
navigation,  and  also  that  the  usual  process  of  rowing 
was  not  possible  on  a  rapid  little  stream  where  it  was 
always  necessary  to  see  well  in  advance.  So  I  devised 
a  small  flat-bottomed  coracle,  short  and  buoyant,  made 
of  wickerwork,  covered  with  canvas.  This  cost  me 
altogether  about  twelve  shillings.  It  has  one  wooden 
seat,  three  narrow  wooden  keels,  and  a  double-bladed 
paddle  for  propulsion.  Seated  with  my  face  in  the 
direction  of  the  stream's  course,  I  can  detect  at  some 
distance  anything  likely  to  offer  an  impediment,  and 
take  measures  to  avoid  it.  The  loose  paddle  is  infi- 
nitely better  than  a  pair  of  sculls  for  such  rough  work 
as  this.  A  paddle  is  equal  to  two  things,  and  yet  it  is 
only  one  thing ;  it  does  not  get  embarrassed  in  row- 
locks, as  oars  will,  in  a  very  narrow  place ;  you  can 
push  with  it  on  either  side  in  a  moment,  and  it  occu- 
pies no  breadth  of  water  ;  above  all,  you  can  sit  with 
your  face  to  your  work. 

With  this  little  coracle  I  found  that  I  could  easily 
perform  the  whole  voyage  on  the  river,  and  anything 
more  amusing  and  exciting  it  is  not  possible  to  imagine. 
The  water  rushes  over  the  shallows  with  great  swiftness, 
and  swirls  heavily  in  the  deep  pools ;  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  roots,  and  sometimes  massive  trunks  lie  half 
athwart  the  stream ;  the  turns  are  extremely  sharp, 
and  there  are  violent  eddies  and  counter  currents  on 
which  the  coracle  bobs  about  like  a  cork.  Such  boat- 
ing as  this  needs  incessant  attention,  but  that  is  the 
very  charm  of  it.    An  amusement  ought  to  occupy 


A  River  Voyage  in  a  Basket, 


339 


the  mind  as  well  as  the  body,  and  not  leave  it  free  to 
continue  its  labors  or  recur  to  its  anxieties.  Simple 
rowing  on  smooth  water  is,  I  have  always  thought, 
one  of  the  most  mechanical  of  all  diversions.  Sailing 
is  good,  because  it  occupies  one,  and  needs  constant 
watchfulness.  Descending  a  wild  stream  in  a  coracle 
is  quite  as  good  as  even  sailing  in  rough  weather. 
You  see  before  you,  a  hundred  yards  off,  five  or  six 
awkward  snags  all  across  the  stream  ;  you  select  what 
seems  the  best  passage,  and  with  a  few  strong  strokes 
of  the  paddle  get  your  coracle  into  such  a  position 
that  it  will  rush  straight  through  the  narrow  channel. 
In  an  instant  the  obstacles  are  behind  you,  and  you 
are  borne  along  swiftly,  perhaps  over  rippling  rapids, 
or  tossed  on  leaping  waves,  or  on  a  deep  calm  pool  a 
moment's  respite  is  allowed  you,  and  you  may  light 
your  pipe  and  meditate  on  the  delightfulness  of  your 
position.  When  you  descend  in  this  manner  some 
rapid  trout  stream  like  the  Ternin,  nothing  is  more 
amusing  than  to  watch  the  astonished  anglers  on  the 
bank.  You  appear  to  them  as  unexpectedly  as  if  you 
were  a  porpoise  —  they  open  their  mouths  in  amaze- 
ment —  you  glide  past  them  in  a  moment,  and  are 
gone. 

Work  of  this  kind,  I  warn  the  sympathetic  reader, 
is,  when  you  first  attempt  it,  in  a  high  degree  alarming. 
It  seems  absolutely  impossible  that  you  should  get  out 
of  such  an  endless  succession  of  difficulties.  The  first 
snags,  with  water  rushing  between  them  like  a  mill- 
race,  have  something  of  horror  in  their  aspect  —  gaunt 
arms  rising  from  the  swift  stream  to  catch  you  and 
rend  you.  With  a  little  experience  these  alarms  give 
place  to  a  feeling  of  perfect  self-possession.  You  learn 


34° 


A  River  Voyage  in  a  Basket. 


the  art  of  discovering  in  time  where  the  best  passage 
lies,  and  of  so  placing  your  coracle  that  it  will  be 
driven  through  it  by  the  current.  You  become  aware 
of  certain  laws  or  customs  of  rapid  streams,  by  which 
you  know  beforehand  how  and  where  they  have  hol- 
lowed water  enough  to  carry  your  light  craft.  You 
acquire  such  mastery  over  your  paddle,  that,  with  a 
powerful  stroke  or  two,  you  avert  easily  what  seems 
certain  destruction. 

People  who  live  near  streams  usually  pronounced 
not  navigable  do  not  know  what  they  miss.  To  any 
such  I  say,  Get  a  coracle  or  a  little  canoe,  and  try  to 
navigate  your  stream.  A  little  wading  now  and  then 
does  no  harm,  though  in  the  winter  and  spring  I  do 
my  voyage  to  Autun  without  once  quitting  the  coracle. 
It  might  be  possible  in  a  sharp  little  canoe  to  ascend 
the  stream  also,  but  this  seems  very  doubtful ;  my  plan 
is  to  walk  home,  and  send  the  coracle  back  in  a  cart. 
I  have  not  yet  read  the  history  of  the  "  Rob  Roy 
Canoe,"  but  can  well  believe  that  a  boat  so  carefully 
built  would  have  advantages  over  a  coracle.  I  think, 
however,  that  for  rough  work  of  this  kind  it  is  well 
not  to  be  afraid  for  your  boat ;  so  it  is  better  to  have  it 
very  cheap  and  easily  repaired.  I  intend  to  build  one 
this  summer  of  paper,  which  seems  to  be  the  best  of 
all  materials.  I  shall  begin  by  making  a  solid  mound 
on  the  earth  the  exact  shape  and  size  of  the  canoe, 
bottom  upwards.  On  this  I  shall  place  slips  of  paper 
in  every  direction,  dipped  in  Jeffrey's  Marine  Glue,  till 
they  reach  a  thickness  sufficient  to  resist  hard  usage, 
yet  not  enough  to  be  heavy.  The  elasticity  of  such  a 
boat  would  be  great,  and  it  would  be  absolutely  imper- 
meable ;  besides,  it  is  quite  easy  to  give  it  a  most 


A  River  Voyage  in  a  Basket.  341 


beautiful  form,  favorable  to  speed.  Again,  a  paper 
boat  would  be  repaired  at  once,  and  the  voyager  might 
take  a  little  marine  glue  as  part  of  his  stores. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  nobody  ought 
to  have  playthings  of  this  kind  who  is  not  a  good 
swimmer. 

These  general  observations  relieve  me  from  the  ne- 
cessity of  describing  the  voyage  to  Autun.  It  is  very 
beautiful.  We  pass  an  old  chateau  with  a  picturesque 
wooden  bridge  ;  but  the  great  charm  is  in  the  wind- 
ings of  the  river,  and  the  glimpses  of  the  towers  of 
the  lofty  city  looking  grander  and  grander,  nearer  and 
nearer,  as  we  glide  rapidly  towards  it.  At  length  we 
pass  on  the  right  a  great  massive  Roman  ruin,  like 
two  sides  of  a  strong  tower  or  keep,  which  the  people 
call  the  Temple  of  Janus.  On  the  left  is  a  picturesque 
group  of  houses,  a  bridge,  and  a  fine  Roman  gateway, 
with  its  arches  still  entire.  Then  the  coracle  passes 
into  the  Arroux,  and  floats,  slowly  and  soberly  now, 
down  to  the  other  bridge,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
massive  Roman  walls,  whose  good  masonry  has  been 
so  pillaged  for  house  building  that  only  a  few  square 
yards  of  the  facing  remain,  yet  these  fragments  perfect 
as  if  built  yesterday.  There  is  another  Roman  gate- 
way at  Autun,  and  other  walls  with  many  towers  built 
in  the  middle  ages.  All  these  are  crowned  by  the 
spire  of  the  cathedral,  and  better  subjects  for  etching 
it  is  not  possible  to  imagine.  The  way  the  towers 
group  on  the  side  towards  the  hills  is  quite  glorious, 
and  the  more  I  draw  and  etch  about  Autun  the  richer 
it  seems.  The  court-yards  too,  into  which  no  casual 
tourist  penetrates,  are  full  of  interest,  from  the  noble 
one  of  the  Hotel  de  Beauchamp,  once  the  residence 


342 


Epilogue, 


of  a  Chancellor  of  Burgundy,  down  to  little  neglected 
places  inhabited  by  quite  poor  people,  and  which  one 
only  finds  out  by  the  most  impudent  prying.  To 
describe  such  things  as  these  the  etching  needle  is  a 
better  instrument  than  the  pen  ;  and  since  I  have  begun 
to  use  it,  I  am  no  longer  tempted  to  elaborate  written 
descriptions  till  they  become  tedious. 


EPILOGUE. 

Nine  years  have  elapsed  since  the  first  experiment 
in  hut  life  in  the  Lancashire  moors.  Looking  back 
across  these  nine  years,  the  author  believes  that  he 
can  judge  of  what  he  then  did  with  as  much  impar- 
tiality as  another  critic,  and  with  far  more  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances  to  be  taken  into 
consideration. 

Ten  years  ago,  when  P.  G.  H.  planned  his  encamp- 
ment, the  direction  of  English  landscape  study  was 
almost  entirely  towards  accuracy  and  detail.  P.  G.  H. 
never  called  himself,  or  desired  to  be  called,  a  Pre- 
Raphaelite  ;  but  he  had  warm  sympathy  with  the 
earnestness  in  study  of  which  that  school  set  the 
worthy  example.  Art  may  be  attained  by  two  op- 
posite methods,  either  by  trying  always,  from  the  very 
beginning,  for  power  and  unity  of  effect,  gradually 
acquiring  better  knowledge  of  detail  by  observation 
and  practice  ;  or  detail  itself  may  be  made  the  first 
object,  and  unity  and  power  of  effect  looked  to  as  the 
crown  of  the  edifice.    These  two  methods  are  simply 


Epilogue. 


343 


those  of  synthesis  and  analysis  :  both  are  necessary  in 
all  study,  but  one  or  the  other  is  usually  the  chief  aim 
of  the  student,  and  the  intellectual  habits  of  the  age 
may  determine  which  of  the  two  shall  for  the  moment 
enjoy  the  advantages  of  being  fashionable.  P.  G.  H. 
would  not  have  been  human,  he  would  certainly  not 
have  been  artistic,  if  he  had  not  felt  the  influences  and 
shared  the  enthusiasms  of  his  age  and  generation. 
His  idea  of  study  was,  therefore,  almost  entirely 
analytic :  to  render  the  true  form  and  color  of  the 
plants  and  rocks,  the  true  structure  of  the  mountain 
and  the  cloud,  seemed  to  him  an  aim  worthy  of  all 
labor,  and  for  the  achievement  of  which  any  amount 
of  trouble  or  inconvenience  might  be  cheerfully  gone 
through  and  endured.  This  was  the  state  of  his  mind 
during  his  hut  life  in  Lancashire.  An  old  project  for 
the  rich  illustration  of  the  Loire,  from  its  source  to 
the  sea,  was  abandoned,  perhaps  unfortunately,  for  a 
residence  on  a  well-beloved  lake  in  Scotland.  An 
artist  whose  training  and  ideas  were  almost  exclusive- 
ly analytical  might  have  pursued  his  studies,  in  the 
climate  of  Central  France,  in  life-long  unconsciousness 
of  the  insufficiency  of  his  method.  Happily  industri- 
ous, producing  always  work  of  undeniable  interest 
and  value  as  a  record,  he  might  have  escaped  the 
reflections  on  the  nature  of  art  which  lead  to  dis- 
satisfaction with  mere  detail,  however  accurate.  It 
seems  probable  that  if  P.  G.  H.  had  gone  to  the  Loire 
instead  of  to  Argyllshire,  he  would  have  done  far 
more  work  with  the  brush,  and  so  acquired  far 
greater  manual  skill,  but  that  the  purely  analytic 
habit  would  have  remained  with  him. 

The  Highlands  taught  another  lesson,  and  a  very 


344 


Epilogue. 


severe  lesson  it  was.  The  great  characteristic  of  the 
Highlands  is  their  magnificent  unity  of  effect,  and  it 
became  evident  that  the  analytic  method  was  here 
incompetent.  After  a  year  of  constant  observation 
and  many  practical  failures,  P.  G.  H.,  who  could 
not  abandon  his  desire  for  analysis,  determined  to  try 
for  a  kind  of  art  which  should  be  at  the  same  time 
minutely  analytic,  and  yet  a  true  painting  of  effect. 
It  is  obvious  that  such  an  ambition  involved  pro- 
digious technical  difficulties.  The  artist  who  frankly 
abandons  effect,  as  many  English  painters  seem  to 
have  done,  may,  by  patience  and  hard  work,  carry 
analysis  very  far.  The  artist  who  is  content  to  sacrifice 
detail  altogether,  as  many  French  painters  do,  may 
reach  great  power  and  unity.  But  to  combine  on  one 
canvas  the  detail  of  Brett  and  the  effect  of  Troyon, 
is  so  immensely  difficult  that  it  may  safely  be  pro- 
nounced to  be  impossible.  And  it  is  impossible  for 
the  profoundest  reasons  —  reasons  deduced  from  the 
eternal  laws  of  the  human  mind.  We  are  so  con- 
stituted that  art  only  affects  us  in  so  far  as  it  is  the 
expression  of  some  predominant  idea,  some  over- 
powering emotion.  The  power  of  the  painter  is  in 
his  originality  of  selection,  by  which  he  emphatically 
calls  our  attention  to  some  especial  quality  or  aspect 
of  nature.  When  P.  G.  H.  aimed  at  the  union  of 
the  whole  of  visible  detail  with  as  much  as  possible 
of  visible  effect,  he  erred  in  ignoring  altogether  the 
artistic  right  —  we  may  even  go  farther,  and.  call  it 
the  artistic  duty  —  of  selection.  Art  in  this  is  an 
epitome  of  life.  The  man  who  cannot  choose  be- 
tween one  thing  and  another  is  the  helpless  victim  of 
the  situation  in  which  he  finds  himself:  his  friends, 


Epilogue, 


345 


his  books,  his  profession,  his  wife,  all  tumble  upon 
him,  because  he  happens  to  be  in  that  place ;  but 
men  who  succeed  greatly  take  their  own  everywhere, 
and  leave  the  rest.  Unless  an  artist  finds  in  nature 
something  with  which  he  himself  has  a  peculiar  af- 
finity, something  belonging  to  him,  he  will  never  do 
any  good ;  but  if,  having  found  this,  he  is  too  timid 
to  claim  his  rights  and  cultivate  his  own  property, 
failure  equally  attends  him. 

If  P.  G.  H.  had  had  the  courage  to  set  aside,  once 
for  all,  the  idea  that  mere  fidelity  to  the  outward  form 
was  a  sort  of  duty  to  the  public,  he  would  probably 
have  done  much  more  and  much  better.  Every  young 
man  lives  under  the  influence  of  some  one  whose 
authority  he  respects ;  and  P.  G.  H.  lived  under  the 
influence  of  Mr.  Ruskin,  which  accounts  for  his  ten- 
dencies to  pure  topography.  That  influence  might 
have  lasted  longer  if  Mr.  Ruskin  himself  had  not 
weakened  and  finally  destroyed  it  by  publications 
whose  startling  unreason  was  enough  to  shake  the 
faith  of  all  but  the  most  devoted  disciples.  In  1856  it 
seemed  to  P.  G.  H.  that  Mr.  Ruskin  was  the  writer 
on  art,  as  Mahomet,  to  a  son  of  Islam,  is  the  Prophet. 
In  1866  it  seems  rather  that  Mr.  Ruskin  is  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  critics,  as  Mahomet,  to  a  philos- 
opher, is  one  of  the  greatest  religious  leaders.  The 
transition  from  the  position  of  a  believer  to  that  of  an 
observant  but  not  hostile  onlooker,  is  in  this  instance 
fully  accomplished ;  and  whatever  critics  may  still 
say  of  me,  they  cannot  any  longer  accuse  me  of 
Ruskinism. 

All  these  remarks  about  analysis  and  selection  are 
quite  pertinent  to  the  subject  of  this  book,  the  Camp. 


346 


Epilogue. 


Much  analysis  and  little  selection  lead  naturally  to 
tent-work,  which  offers  great  conveniences  for  close 
analytic  study.  Artists  who  work  from  memory 
mainly,  have  no  occasion  for  painting-tents,  as  I 
have  always  said.  Hence  it  happened  that  when 
P.  G.  H.  gave  up  the  habit  of  analysis,  and  painted 
large  pictures  from  sketches  and  studies,  he  almost 
abandoned  for  a  time  the  use  of  the  camp.  Now, 
however,  he  uses  the  tents  again,  but  with  different 
aims. 

First,  he  did  slow  analytic  work  from  nature  with 
the  camp. 

Next  he  tried  work  from  memoranda  in  the  studio. 

Thirdly,  he  returned  to  the  camp,  but  with  a  view 
to  rapid  work,  whose  chief  aim  was  synthetic. 

In  the  future  there  seems  every  probability  that  the 
tents  will  be  of  frequent  service.  When  these  pages 
appear,  the  writer  will  be  voyaging  in  his  boat,  pitch- 
ing his  camp  every  night.  These  voyages,  as  they 
oecur,  may  be  recorded  in  some  magazine  or  review, 
and  illustrated  in  a  separate  issue  of  etchings,  or  the 
etchings  may  be  accompanied  with  a  brief  account 
of  the  journey.  An  artist's  excursions  ought  not  to 
be  elaborated  into  heavy  books  of  travel,  but  told 
briefly,  without  too  much  effort,  and,  above  all,  very 
liberally  illustrated.  In  these  respects  the  "  Painter's 
Camp"  has  not  yet  quite  fulfilled  my  notion  of  an 
artist's  book  of  travel ;  but  as  the  present  edition 
brings  it  into  briefer  compass,  so  some  future  arrange- 
ment may  supply  the  illustrations  which,  to  my  re- 
gret, are  still  wanting  to  its  completion. 

In  conclusion,  I  take  the  opportunity  of  saying  a 
few  words  on  a  subject  which  occupied  in  the  first 


Epilogue. 


347 


edition  more  space  than  it  deserved.  Many  critics,  re- 
flecting, no  doubt,  quite  faithfully  the  general  opinion, 
were  rather  angry  with  me  for  opening  what  seemed 
an  unprofitable  discussion  about  the  position  of  art 
and  artists  in  the  world.  They  saw  in  it  simply 
an  expression  of  personal  irritation  or  professional 
soreness  ;  but  this  view,  I  venture  to  observe,  was  not 
entirely  just  to  me.  Of  all  questions  in  social  philos- 
ophy, not  one  interested  me  so  much,  or  on  grounds 
so  broadly  general,  as  that  of  the  social  estimation  of 
the  various  occupations  of  men  ;  and  I  may  add  that, 
to  this  day,  no  social  subject  has  for  me  an  interest  so 
deep  and  inexhaustible.  The  current  estimation  of 
occupations  is  the  key  to  the  state  of  civilization. 
Accident  led  me  to  direct,  for  the  time,  my  attention 
more  especially  to  the  rank  assigned  to  my  own 
pursuit ;  but  that  of  the  pursuits  of  others  was  not 
less  suggestive,  nor  less  interesting  or  valuable,  in  my 
view,  as  evidence  of  our  social  condition.  The  solu- 
tion which  I  then  proposed,  that  the  social  rank  of 
an  occupation  is  the  accurate  measure  of  its  govern- 
mental power,  seems  to  me  still  the  only  possible 
explanation.  If  this  is,  as  I  do  believe,  a  fundamental 
law  of  human  nature,  it  is  both  foolish  and  useless  to 
quarrel  with  it ;  but  though  it  may  be  useless  to  quar- 
rel with  it,  it  is  not  useless  to  state  it.  The  benefit  to 
be  derived  from  such  discussions  is  the  clear  separa- 
tion of  the  two  ideas  of  nobleness  and  power.  Paint- 
ing is,  if  rightly  followed,  one  of  the  very  noblest  of 
human  pursuits,  but  it  is  not  a  powerful  one  ;  hence 
its  social  rank  is  dubious.  The  social  rank  of  a  per- 
fectly unscrupulous  prime  minister  (e.  g.,  Bismark)  is 
very  high ;  the  social  rank  of  a  perfectly  upright 


343 


Epilogue. 


domestic  servant  is  very  humble.  The  real  difference 
is  a  difference  of  power,  which  society  must  recognize. 
Nor  does  it  seem  difficult  to  understand  why  this  in- 
stinct of  deference  to  the  powerful  has  been  implanted 
in  the  human  mind.  Men  were  intended  to  be  govei'n- 
able  creatures,  and  deference  is  a  predisposition  to 
obedience..  There  is,  however,  a  compensation  which 
some  years  ago  I  had  not  known  by  experience,  and 
so  valued  less  than  I  do  now.  That  compensation  is 
human  sympathy.  Authors  and  artists  may  possess 
this  to  an  extent  which  is  really  wonderful.  Our 
social  rank  may  not  be  quite  so  firm  as  that  of  lawyers 
and  statesmen ;  but  honest  work  may  win  for  us  a 
kindly  personal  interest  in  the  hearts  of  thousands, 
and  the  respect  of  intelligent  and  cultivated  men  in 
the  remotest  parts  of  the  earth.  Only  the  other  day  a 
letter  came  to  me  from  a  stranger  beyond  the  Mis- 
sissippi, full  of  the  warmest  encouragement.  The 
knowledge  that  there  are  many  who  care  for  us,  and 
desire  our  success,  may  fortify  us  against  the  insolence 
of  snobs. 


